The Dragons' Dance
by TequilaTheHun
Summary: Drakon Blackfyre has claimed the Iron Throne of Westeros. But across the Narrow Sea, there is another claimant, one who is also Blood of the Dragon. And to the North, the cold winds are rising. Beset by enemies without and within, will House Blackfyre win the Game of Thrones, or will it truly become extinct?
1. Happier Days

_**Many years ago…**_

"Here, look at this."

Drakon turned to look at the book Rhaegar held in his hands. The two young men sat against a wall in the library of the Red Keep, tucked away with piles of books beside them. They had spent hours like this, reading book after book as the sun made its journey across the sky.

The book that Rhaegar held appeared to be a chronicle of sorts, but of what, Drakon couldn't tell. He furrowed his brow in confusion. "What's this?"

The beautiful, silver-haired Targaryen Prince showed him the cover, and Drakon recognized the sigil of his house: a black, three-headed Dragon on crimson, which was the reverse of the Targaryen colours. The cover was made of leather that had been made to resemble Dragon scales, and Drakon briefly ran a hand over it.

"It looks like a chronicle of your family" Rhaegar explained, returning to the page he was on. "Here. This is Daemon Blackfyre, your ancestor and the founder of your house."

Drakon stared at the picture, smiling as he beheld his ancestor. Daemon was depicted in a suit of black plate mail with various Dragon motifs. He held Blackfyre, the ancestral Targaryen sword of Aegon the Conqueror and the namesake of his house, in one hand and a black, winged helm in the other. He had the classical Targaryen features of silver-blonde hair and purple eyes, and he was incredibly handsome and clean-shaven.

"You look just like him" Rhaegar said.

Drakon glanced at his adoptive brother, furrowing his brow. "Really?"

"Well, except for this" the Targaryen prince added, gesturing to the last Blackfyre's shoulder-length black hair and black beard.

He flipped through the pages of the chronicle, and he and Drakon saw each of the Blackfyres depicted in their prime. Eventually, they came to Maelys I, his father. Drakon leaned his head back against the wall, sighing. "My family history is filled with rebellion and death. All my forefathers ever did was try to overthrow yours. And now I am the last. My House's future is on my shoulders. What kind of legacy can I, the son of a rebel, leave behind?"

Rhaegar smiled sympathetically. "You won't be like that. I know it in my heart."

Drakon looked over at him. "I promise to repay the kindness your family has shown me. I want to restore my house to glory, to show the world that we can do more than carry out failed rebellions. I love you like a brother, Rhaegar."

"And I love you, Drakon Blackfyre."

The young men returned to their respective books, drinking in the written word. After some time had passed, Drakon said "I imagine you are looking forward to meeting your new sibling."

"How do you know about that? Father made the announcement only yesterday."

The black-haired young man shrugged. "Having grown up in the Red Keep, I know my way around the tunnels and catacombs. You'd be amazed at what one can hear echoing through this place."

Rhaegar smirked. "Mother thinks it'll be a girl."

"Has she decided on a name yet?"

"She was thinking Alysanne, maybe. Or Daena."

Drakon looked down at the Blackfyre chronicle, remembering the story of the woman who his ancestor, Daemon, had loved above all others, and that love had come to define him and his eventual rebellion. "How about Daenerys?"

Rhaegar thought it over. "Daenerys Targaryen. I think that will be an excellent name for a princess. I can't wait for you two to meet."

Drakon smiled. "I look forward to it."

* * *

 **And here it is! Did y'all see the Season 7 premiere? Because, OH MY FREAKING GODS!**

 **I'll be posting this story on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule, so chapter 2 will be dropping this Wednesday. As I am currently working a night shift, you can expect me to post around this time on those days.**

 **I look forward to bringing you the next chapter in the life of Drakon Blackfyre!**

 **P.S. A few minor clarifications: in The Black Dragon, I said that Andar Royce was Lord Royce's eldest son and heir. Actually, Samwell is the eldest, but Andar became the heir after Samwell was disowned. As for Drakon and Visenya's children, their first child was born at the end of Season 4, and their second child was born a month before this story takes place.**


	2. The Court of Bones

_**Meereen…**_

Olene of Braavos stood beside her queen, Daenerys Targaryen, within the throne room of the Great Pyramid. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows, highlighting the carvings on the walls and the Unsullied standing guard nearby. Missandei, the queen's chief advisor, stood opposite Olene. Ser Barristan and Grey Worm had still not fully recovered from their injuries at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy.

The Braavosi woman stared down at the two men who stood at the base of the steps leading to the throne, wary for any kind of deception.

Well, more like a man and a half.

"Your Grace, I want to say—" Ser Jorah started to say.

"You will not speak" the queen interrupted. She turned to look at the dwarf and asked "How do I know you are who you say you are?"

He shrugged. "If only I were otherwise."

"If you are Tyrion Lannister, why shouldn't I kill you? To pay your family back for what it did to mine."

"You want revenge against the Lannisters?" the dwarf asked. "I killed my mother, Joanna Lannister, the day I was born. I killed my father, Tywin Lannister, with a bolt to the heart. I am the greatest Lannister killer of our time."

Olene and Missandei exchanged a glance. Apparently, this 'Tyrion Lannister' had no idea of what had occurred in his homeland. The Water Dancer was interested to see how he would react to the news.

"So I should welcome you into my service because you murdered members of your own family?" the queen asked, sounding skeptical.

"Into your service? Your Grace, we have only just met. It's too soon to know if you deserve my service."

"If you'd rather return to the fighting pits, just say the word" she countered.

"When I was a young man, I heard a story about a baby born during the worst storm in living memory. She had no wealth, no lands, no army; only a name and a handful of supporters, most of whom probably thought they could use that name to benefit themselves. They kept her alive, moving her from place to place, often hours ahead of the men who had been sent to kill her. She was eventually sold off to some warlord on the edge of the world and that appeared to be that. And then a few years later the most well-informed person I knew told me that this girl without wealth, lands, or armies had somehow acquired all three in a very short span of time, along with three Dragons. He thought she was our best, last chance to build a better world. I thought you were worth meeting, at the very least."

Olene found herself agreeing with that assessment. Having initially been sent to serve the young Targaryen monarch as a mission, she had grown to admire her and pledge her undying loyalty to her. Daenerys Stormborn was the very best that House Targaryen could hope for.

"And why are you worth meeting? Why should I spend my time listening to you?"

"Because you cannot build a better world on your own. You have no one at your side who understands that land you want to rule. The strengths and the weaknesses of the houses that will either support or oppose you."

Again, Olene and Missandei exchanged a glance.

"I have a very large army and very large Dragons" the queen replied.

"Killing and politics aren't always the same thing. When I served as Hand of the King, I did quite well with the latter, considering the king in question preferred torturing animals to leading his people. I could do an even better job advising a ruler worth the name."

"So you want to advise me. Very well. What would you have me do with him? I swore I would kill him if he ever returned."

All eyes turned to Ser Jorah.

"I know" the Lannister dwarf said, taking a few steps forward. Olene tightened the grip on her sword.

"Why should the people trust a queen who can't keep her promises?" the queen asked.

"Whomever Ser Jorah was when he started informing on you, he is no longer that man. I can't remember seeing the same man as devoted to anything as he is to serving you. He claims he would kill for you and die for you, and nothing I have witnessed gives me reason to doubt him. And yet he did betray you."

Ser Jorah looked at the dwarf, appearing afraid for his probable execution.

The dwarf started climbing the steps, and the Unsullied readied their spears as Olene started to draw her sword. The queen held up a hand, and they all relaxed.

Only slightly.

Tyrion glanced nervously at the guards, then proceeded more cautiously. Once he was halfway up, he asked "Did he have an opportunity to confess his betrayals?"

"Yes, many opportunities" the queen answered.

"And did he?"

"No. Not until forced to do so."

Ser Jorah looked down at the floor in shame, and Olene found herself feeling pity for the man. But pity would not save him.

Tyrion glanced at the other man. "He worships you. He is in love with you, I think. But he did not trust you with the truth –an unpleasant truth, to be sure— but one of great significance to you. He did not trust that you would be wise enough to forgive him."

"So I should kill him?

"A ruler who kills those that are devoted to her is not a ruler that inspires devotion. And you're going to need to inspire devotion, and lots of it, if you're ever going to rule across the Narrow Sea. But you cannot have him by your side when you do."

Olene glanced at the queen, and saw that she was stone-faced. The Braavosi suspected she was trying to keep herself from crying.

"Remove Ser Jorah from the city" she said, her voice strained.

His mouth opened, as if to speak, but no words came out. A pair of Unsullied walked over to him, and as he looked sadly at the queen, his queen, they escorted him out of the throne room. Olene released her grip on her sword, standing at ease as Tyrion turned to look at the queen.

"About your family…" she started to say.

The dwarf gave a mirthless smile. "Not to worry, Your Grace. Suffice it to say, my loyalty to my family has been all but extinguished."

"No, that's not what I was going to say." Tyrion furrowed his brow, looking like he knew something was horribly wrong. "While you were traveling here, something happened back in Westeros. It would seem that my throne has been taken by yet another usurper."

"Who?"

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

"All hail His Grace, Drakon of the House of Blackfyre, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Drakon strode through the throne room, dressed in a relatively simple outfit of crimson with a high collar and a black, three-headed Dragon over his left breast. The leather was patterned like Dragon scales. A crimson sash was wrapped across his chest, over his right shoulder, also depicting the black Dragon of House Blackfyre. The son of Maelys I cast a demanding presence, standing taller than most as his muscular physique cast him in the likes of ancient heroes, while his silver hair and beard pointed to his Valyrian heritage. He wore a black circlet on his head that was shaped like a Dragon eating its own tail.

Beside him, holding his arm, was his sister-wife, Visenya. She looked radiant as her long, silver hair ran down to her back. Her violet eyes twinkled in the torchlight, and her thin lips were curled into a smirk. She wore a silver gown that clung to her generous curves. The daughter of Maelys I outshone all the other women of the court with her beauty and her confidence, and she wore a crimson Dragon circlet on her head.

Rhaegar had once compared Drakon to his ancestor, Daemon Blackfyre. The Black Dragon thought it appropriate, then, that his sister-wife resemble Shiera Seastar, the most beautiful of Aegon IV's bastard children and half-sister to Daemon.

The King and Queen of Westeros strode between the parting groups of courtiers, flanked by the Kingsguard. Two of the six royal guard were stationed in the royal apartments, guarding Drakon and Visenya's two children.

Ser Loras Tyrell, son of Lord Mace Tyrell, led them as their Lord Commander. The other four were Ser Prester Cerwyn, the former Master-at-arms of Dragon's Rest and one of the finest swordsmen Drakon had ever known, Ser Benedict Mooton, and Ser Eustace Hunter.

Instead of the golden armour and white cloaks of the past, the five men wore steel armour, painted black, with crested helmets and a three-headed Dragon symbol on their chests. It resembled the Kingsguard armour of the Targaryen kings, and it reflected Drakon's desire to move away from the unadulterated displays of opulent wealth of the Lannisters.

Drakon and his sister walked up the steps, and the king of Westeros sat on the Iron Throne, his birthright, as the Kingsguard stood in a semi-circle before him.

Visenya sat down beside him, while Mace Tyrell, the Hand of the King, stood to his left. It had been Drakon's observation that for the realm to prosper, there either needed to be a strong king and weak Hand or a strong Hand and a weak king.

He was certainly not a weak king.

Under the shadow of Balerion the Dread's massive skull, Drakon regarded those assembled before him. "My lords, my ladies. It has been three months since the end of the Second War of Conquest, since I doled out righteous punishment to all oathbreakers and usurpers in the realm. Though we still bear the scars of war, we have begun to heal from the damage wrought by those who slaughtered countless thousands for their own vain ambition."

Drakon gestured to the pillars of the throne room, specifically the skeletons hanging from chains on each. The skeletons once belonged to Gregor Clegane, Robert Baratheon, Jaime Lannister, and Tywin Lannister, all without skulls. The skulls of the latter two had been sent to the Martells of Dorne as a gesture of goodwill, while Drakon had kept the other two.

"Those four men overthrew the rightful Targaryen king, and in so doing, instituted an order of backstabbing, intrigue, and petty, selfish quarrels. Because of those men, the realm bled and suffered at the hands of the Lannisters and their ilk. Now, all the Lannisters are dead, their house and their wretched name wiped clean from history."

Many eyes looked up at the massive Dragon skull above Drakon. He had, in addition to chaining the skeletons of the four men who had ruined his life to the pillars, taken the skulls of Cersei Lannister and the rest of her entire family and impaled them on the teeth of Balerion's lower jaw. They would be a reminder to the people of the price of betrayal, as well as a warning of what fate awaited those who would cross him.

"It is my intention to ride out in three days' time with the royal caravan to tour the realm and make my presence known to the people of the Seven Kingdoms. I will go to all the kingdoms and visit every high lord and city within the realm. Now that I am king, we will be one people, one realm that will face the uncertain future together."

All the assembled nobles began to applaud, cheering for their king, a king who had righted the wrongs of the past and restored those of Targaryen blood to their rightful place.

They cheered for The Black Dragon.

* * *

 **I know that many authors like to 'cast' their stories, and I do the same. These are the actors that I based my characters' physical appearances on:**

 **Drakon – Clive Standen**

 **Visenya – Laura Vandervoort**

 **Jayne – Emma Watson**

 **Edric/Edwyn – Colton Haynes**

 **Olene – Katie Cassidy**

 **Rona – Olivia Wilde**

 **Simon – John Shrapnel**

 **Rolfe – Gerard Butler**

 **Samwell – Vincent D'onofrio**

 **Gjalda – Eva Green**

 **Maester Pyne – Peter Capaldi**

 **Masyn Tanner – Chris Hemsworth**


	3. The Small Council

Drakon stared down at the table, breathing through his nose as he waited.

He sat at the head of the table, while Visenya sat to his left, idly holding his hand. On her lap sat Daemon, their eldest child. He was almost a year old, while his new sister, Rhaenyra, was only a month old, and he already bore a head of silver hair as well as his mother's violet eyes. Beside Visenya sat Ser Loras and Samwell Royce. The stocky man, who had served Drakon for longer than most, was now Lord of Storm's End as well as Master of Ships. His Direwolf, Nymeria, slept on the floor behind him, her breathing quite loud due to her size.

The seat to Samwell's left was empty, as Grand Maester Pycelle had starved to death in a Black Cell after Drakon's assumption of the throne. He was still waiting on word from the Citadel as to the man's replacement.

To Drakon's right sat Mace Tyrell, who smiled apologetically to the others. Beside him sat Simon Groat, a bald and rather unattractive man who served as Master of Coin. The man had served Drakon for years as a financial advisor, and he continued to drink wine as he, like everyone else, waited.

All the glassware in the Red Keep reflected a Dragon motif, as Drakon had brought them over from Dragonstone, leaving behind the gold, jewel-encrusted finery of the Lannisters.

The muscular man took a sip from his own goblet, which differed from the others because it had been fashioned from the skull of Robert Baratheon, and the handle was a black, clawed Dragon hand. The Usurper had stolen the Iron Throne from the rightful Targaryen monarch and murdered his brother on the Trident, defiling the throne and the realm with his fat, whoring, drinking, murdering ass.

Now, Drakon drank wine from his skull, which he considered the height of poetic irony.

Beside Simon sat Rona Grey, the Master of Whisperers and Drakon's oldest friend. She had been with him the longest, and had been the one to introduce him to Jocelyn, his first wife. The brunette woman was dressed in her usual grey garment with a hood that covered most of her head. She tapped her fingers on the table, matching the beat of a popular song.

The seat beside her was occupied by Nymeria Sand, one of the eight bastard daughters of Oberyn Martell and the Master of Laws. While he had been conquering six of the kingdoms, his daughter, Jayne, had undertaken the difficult task of returning Dorne to the fold. Giving them a seat on the Small Council helped a great deal, and Prince Doran had sent Nymeria to fill it. She was twenty five years old, but very beautiful, with long black hair tied into a braid, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. It was said that she was a capable warrior, like her elder sister and father.

That left the seat at the other end of the table, and its occupant was the reason they were all waiting.

Mace turned to Drakon and said "Perhaps it would be best to start, Your Grace. I'm sure my mother would—"

"No" the king said, silencing the Hand. "She insists on making us wait, so we wait. I have no interest in repeating myself."

After a few more minutes passed, Visenya turned to one of the Kingsguard and said "Ser Eustace, perhaps you would be so kind as to—"

Just then, footsteps could be heard, and everyone at the table sighed with relief.

Ser Hugo Flint, Lord Commander of the City Watch and another of Drakon's close allies, entered the chamber, his arm held by Olenna Tyrell, Mace's mother and the last member of the Small Council. "Lady Olenna", Drakon said, trying to contain some of his annoyance, "did the time of this meeting just happen to slip your mind?"

"Oh, of course not" she replied, sitting across from him at the other end of the table. Ser Hugo stood off to the side, next to the other members of the Kingsguard. "I was just out admiring the gardens. They're so lovely this time of year."

"Lady Olenna, I asked you to sit on this council as a courtesy, now that my son is married to your granddaughter, and—"

"And I couldn't be more pleased that you were thinking of little old me" the old woman said. "Now then, let's get down to business, that is, unless you've already started?"

Drakon felt Visenya squeezing his hand supportively. Collecting himself, he turned to Rona and asked "Where are we on the Ironborn?"

The Master of Whisperers leaned back in her seat. "My birds are still trying to track them. When you and your Dragons destroyed Pyke, Yara Greyjoy was elsewhere on the Iron Islands. We may have crushed the Iron Fleet, but she managed to escape with nearly a hundred ships and collect her brother. The last anyone saw of them, they were heading east. As to where… I am still trying to find that out."

"Hopefully, Edwyn and Randyll Tarly can track them down and bring them back to face justice" Drakon said. "I mean to extinguish the Greyjoy line. With Balon and his brothers dead, that leaves Yara and Theon."

"Considering your son and Lord Tarly took half of the House Redwyne fleet, I should hope that they'll come back soon" the elder Tyrell said, snacking on some grapes. "Ships are rather expensive."

"Yes" Drakon agreed. He then turned to Samwell. "How is the progress on the Royal Fleet?"

The stocky lord held his hands in his lap. "Slowly, Your Grace, but we are getting there. The Royal Fleet was almost entirely destroyed during the War of Five Kings, so we've had to build from scratch. Not to mention that all the shipwrights of Blackwater Bay get unnerved at the sight of your Dragons flying about. Many of them refuse to work."

"They'll just have to deal with it. If any of them refuse to carry out their duties, then have them whipped and replaced. That brings us to the realm's finances. Simon?"

The bald man paused long enough to finish his goblet of wine, then licked his lips and said "Well, I don't think I need to remind anyone here that the realm is deep in debt. When war broke out after the Usurper's death, the crown owed roughly 6, 000, 000 gold Dragons to the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Iron Bank, and various other parties. As far as I can tell, Baelish was borrowing ridiculous amounts from them in order to cover the realm's expenses. Now that the Lannisters are all dead, and the Tyrells are doing their part for the realm…"

"That's putting it mildly" Lady Olenna quipped.

"…we can eliminate that particular deficit. The Iron Bank is defaulting on a tenth of their loans, though, so it'll be a while before any of us can have any spending money" Simon finished with a rueful smirk.

Mace looked at Drakon and said "We have done as you commanded, Your Grace, and have melted down much of the Lannisters' gold into coins, as well as seizing the assets of the, um, 'fallen' houses, though it is not quite enough."

At the other end of the table, Olenna snorted. "The 'High Sparrow' was probably delighted to hear about that."

"He did express his appreciation" Drakon said. "And it's important we keep him on our side; he holds sway over many, so while we work at eliminating our debts, we must also make contributions to the Smallfolk and to the Faith of the Seven."

"Feeling particularly religious, are we?" Olenna asked, arching an eyebrow.

"When Stannis Baratheon chose to follow the words of that Red Priestess and worship the Lord of Light, he didn't do it because he had faith. He did it as a way to unify his followers, to add another weapon to his arsenal. Religion is nothing more than an invention of men so that they can sleep comfortably in their beds at night. It's a powerful weapon, and it's too dangerous to ignore."

"A fine sentiment" Simon said, raising his goblet before taking another drink.

"What of Casterly Rock?" Drakon asked, idly tapping his fingers on the table.

Rona crossed her arms and replied "The siege is ongoing, Your Grace. When Kevan Lannister marched to meet us at the Battle of Tumblestone, he left a garrison of 2, 000 to man the castle. Thus far, they have managed to hold out against Lord Swyft and his army."

"Let me go and lead an assault, Your Grace" Ser Loras said. "I will root out those men from the castle."

"There's no need for that" the muscular man said. "Those men are utterly alone, with no allies. It is far easier to simply starve them out and take Casterly Rock whole."

The knight hesitated, then nodded.

Drakon glanced at his Small Council. "Now, if that is all, I suggest we—"

"There is one more thing, Your Grace" Rona said. All eyes turned to her, and she said "My birds tell me that Tyrion Lannister is now in Meereen."

Drakon and Visenya exchanged a glance. "Is he? So… that's where he ran off to."

"He could be conspiring with Daenerys Targaryen to overthrow you, Your Grace" Ser Loras suggested.

"I can't imagine he'll be happy to hear about how you… eliminated his family" Simon added, choosing his words carefully.

Drakon looked over at his oldest friend. "Did your birds tell you anything else?"

Rona shook her head. "All they said was that he came to the city and was brought before the queen. Do you want me to take care of him, Your Grace?"

The king thought it over, taking a deep breath. After a moment, he said "No. But keep me informed as to the goings on in the city. I suspect his arrival will cause some stir. Now, that will be all."

The Small Council proceeded to stand, bowing to him before they made their way out of the chamber. Visenya stood as well, holding onto Daemon as she leaned down and kissed Drakon on the lips. Two of the Kingsguard followed her out, while the other three stayed where they were.

Just as the king was about to stand, he noticed that Olenna was still seated.

She took hold of Simon's wine pitcher and poured herself a goblet. After taking a sip, she said "That Simon fellow looks like he'd rather eat the flesh from a child's corpse, but he does have good taste in wine."

"Is there something I can help you with, Lady Olenna? Because I can't help but notice that you haven't done much advising these past few weeks."

She smiled at him. "Let's just say that I want to remain in the capital and… keep an eye on things. As you stated earlier, our two houses are tied closely together. I love my family, Your Grace, and because of you, my son and grandson are always within your reach."

"I, too, love my family" Drakon said, leaning forward in his seat. "My children are just as precious to me as yours are to you, especially now that I am expecting grandchildren of my own."

"I just want things to be very clear between us. I love my family, and should anything happen to them, well… kings, even a Blackfyre king, are only men. No one can escape death, in the end, after all."

Drakon's courteous smile disappeared. "Careful, Lady Olenna. I am your king, and you would best speak to me with respect."

"Or what? Are you going to burn me alive with Wildfire, like you did to Cersei and her brother? Or feed me to your Dragons, like you did with Walder Frey's sons? Perhaps you just might crush my skull, like you did to Ramsay Bolton."

"One might say that their punishments were more than warranted" he countered.

The old woman nodded. "Perhaps. But the fact that remains that you almost single-handedly exterminated four Great Houses from existence, and are very close to exterminating a fifth. You became Hand of the King and then the King within a day, and it took you less than a year to claim half of Westeros by marriage with your children and the other half through bloody conquest. Now, I certainly admire you for your obvious skill in politics and war, but that only means that you are the most dangerous man in the kingdoms."

"Then I would suggest that you not defy me. The Black Dragon does not tolerate enemies."

"As I said, I admire you. You possess a keen wit that not many can match. You claimed the North by marrying your son to Sansa Stark, you claimed the Vale by installing Lord Royce and marrying your daughter to his son, and you claimed the Reach by simultaneously naming my grandson as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and marrying your son to my granddaughter whilst keeping my son here as Hand of the King. Not even Tywin Lannister was able to unify so many of the Seven Kingdoms under his direct control."

"Tywin Lannister's failing was that he tried to build on top of the muck and the grime. I burned it all away, leaving room for new growth. He was also utterly unconcerned with his children's wellbeing, something that means a great deal to me."

Olenna stood up and said "I hope for all our sakes that you do not emulate the king that fostered you too much. What's the saying about Targaryens and coins?"

With that, she left the Small Council Chamber, rejecting Ser Hugo's arm.

* * *

 **A little dull, I know, but trust me when I say that things will pick up.**

 **Please review and favourite!**


	4. The Lord of Winterfell

_**Winterfell…**_

Edric Blackfyre grunted as he fell to the ground.

He growled as he stood up, wiping the mud from his face as he turned to face his opponent. Masyn Tanner, the new Master-at-arms of Winterfell, stood ready. Edric gripped his Valyrian Steel sword, Wolf's Howl, tightly. He swung it a few times, just as he had a thousand times before. The weapon felt the same, looked the same… and yet, why couldn't he swing the damn thing properly?

Returning his attention to the man in front of him, Edric advanced. He lunged, but the tip of his blade fell well short of its target. Growling in frustration, he followed up with an overhead chop, which Masyn blocked with his own sword.

The sky was grey and oppressive, like most things in the North. The constant, biting chill was the worst part about living so far away from more temperate climes. Edric had gotten a taste of it when he had accompanied his father during the Second War of Conquest, but now he was forced to live with it. Though he had the blood of the Dragon in him, he didn't feel especially warm. After spending most of his life living in the south, he was used to warmer temperatures and actual sunlight.

In the months since he had moved to Winterfell, Edric had let his hair grow out. He now had a beard that covered his mouth and chin, but it was not quite as thick as the beards of the Northerners, and his shaggy black hair barely reached his ears. He had also started dressing like a northern lord, with leather and furs made from wolf hides, both as a measure against the cold and as a way to blend in with his new people.

Edric suspected it was not working.

There was also the issue of his missing eye, covered by a black strip of cloth. Heroes in tales could afford to have such disfigurements; often, it made them more dashing to the ladies and impressive to the boys. A man with a missing eye was supposed to be intimidating, as he had likely lost it in battle from a dagger or an arrow. Edric, however, had lost his while on his back in a dank cell within the very castle he now called home at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. He knew his people did not look at him as charming or brave or intimidating; all they saw was a pathetic little boy trying to be something he was not. That thought drove him as he sparred with the Master-at-arms of Winterfell.

After blocking a chop from Masyn's sword, Edric shoved it to the left. Unfortunately, he realized that the other man was now standing in his blind spot.

In the miniscule amount of time it took to turn so as to see his opponent, Masyn drove his shoulder into him, knocking him to the ground. The Lord of Winterfell once again landed on the ground in defeat, huffing in annoyance.

From nearby, a couple guards chuckled. He could hear one of them muttering "Looks like he lost his balls along with his eye."

Edric gritted his teeth as he felt the familiar feeling of anger rising in him. As the Lord of Winterfell, he was well within his rights to punish his guards as he saw fit, but he also knew that punishing men for laughing at him would only be worse in the long run. No one would respect him, not that they respected him much anyway. So, he let the insult slide.

As he stood up, one of the guards along the walls cried out "Riders approaching!"

Edric readjusted the black strip of cloth over his left eye, then turned to Masyn and said "That's enough for today." He sheathed his sword, and the other man did the same, bowing his head before walking away. The front gates were slowly opened, the old wood creaking and groaning in protest.

Several riders on horseback rode in, along with a carriage. At the head of the group was Sansa Stark, or rather, Sansa Blackfyre, now that she and Edric were married. She was dressed in black, with a Direwolf symbol embroidered over her chest and a fur-edged cloak wrapped around her. He thought that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen: rich, auburn hair tied in a braid that draped over her shoulder, smooth skin, and a face that seemed happy, while at the same time hardened. He knew that she had suffered more than anyone should have while a prisoner of the Lannisters, and he could only hope that he could help her move on.

Edric looked down at himself, seeing that he was quite covered in mud. "Quite the dashing lord husband" he muttered, shaking his head as he walked over to her.

He stopped as he noticed a strange woman riding behind Sansa. 'Strange' did not quite describe her, for she was honestly the tallest woman he had ever seen. She had to be at least six feet high, and garbed in high-quality steel armour. Her blonde hair was close-cut, and she had a face that could best be described as 'unappealing'. Though, given his disfigurement, he was hardly one to judge.

Edric walked over to Sansa as she brought her grey horse to a stop. As she dismounted, he said "Sansa" with the best smile he could muster. He had to orient himself a little to the left so that he could properly see her, which was a facet of conversation he was being forced to get accustomed to.

"Edric" she replied with a smile. He could tell that it was slightly forced, which brought about a pang in his chest. Even though they barely knew each other, he had missed her over the last month, and though he understood that she had been married to him for political reasons, that never lessened the pain he felt when she did not return his feelings.

"How was Riverrun?" he asked, forcing himself to remain composed. If he wanted to win her over, pouting like a child was not the best response.

She took off her riding gloves and smiled as she looked up at the sky. "Last month was my cousin Edmyn's first Nameday. My uncle never saw him until he was freed from his imprisonment. It's so strange, being happy; it almost feels like a dream that I'm afraid will end at any moment. I can't thank you and your father enough for helping mine get the vengeance they deserved. I only wish it had come sooner." Her smile soured at the reminder that most of her family were dead.

"I'm happy that you can take some comfort after what you've experienced." Edric turned to the obscenely tall woman and asked "Who might this be?"

"My lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. I met Lady Sansa on the Kingsroad; in truth, it was for the second time."

"Tarth? As in Lord Selwyn Tarth?"

The armoured woman nodded. "He is my father, my lord."

The Lord of Winterfell looked at her for a moment, then said "Last I heard, you were traveling with the Kingslayer before my father took the Iron Throne."

Brienne and Sansa exchanged a glance. "Before she died, Lady Catelyn bid me to find her daughters and ensure their safety. I was… unable to find Arya, but I promise to serve Lady Sansa. I am sworn to her service; my life is hers, and I vow to keep her safe until my last breath."

Edric sensed that she was a woman of her word. "Sansa, do you trust her?"

His wife looked over at Brienne, then replied "Yes, I do."

"That's good enough for me. Lady Brienne, you are welcome here. I am honoured that my wife has such a faithful and loyal companion."

The tall woman bowed her head. "Thank you, my lord. If it please, just 'Brienne'. I'm no lady."

He fully agreed, but he was wise enough not to say that aloud.

He happened to look down at the sword sheathed at her hip, and the young Blackfyre could not help but notice that the handle was very ornate, having been fashioned into golden lion heads. "That sword…" he said, pointing to it.

Brienne looked down at her weapon. "Oathkeeper. It was given to me by Ser Jaime Lannister when I left the capital. It was forged from the ancestral Stark sword."

"As was mine" Edric said, drawing his own sword a little to show the golden wolf heads on the handle as well as the telltale ripples of Valyrian Steel. As the tall woman blinked in surprise, he looked at Sansa with a smirk. "It would seem that your family's blade has finally come home, my lady."

Later, Edric found himself sitting on a stool in the lord's chamber as Maester Pyne, the new Maester for Winterfell, removed the black cloth wrapped around his left eye. He looked down at the floor as the older man examined what used to be his left eye. "The wound is healing nicely" he said, grabbing a small jar from the table.

"You mean the sewn-together lids that cover the empty hole where my eye used to be?" Edric asked in annoyance.

Pyne scraped some of the salve from the jar and gently rubbed it over his eyelids. "You should consider yourself lucky, you know. Most men would have died from such an injury, but you are recovering rather well."

"Lucky" the young Blackfyre echoed neutrally, not feeling particularly lucky in the moment.

Maester Pyne took the jar in hand and said "My lord, I wish you good night." With that, he left, closing the door behind him. Edric wrapped the cloth around his head, covering his left eye. He stared at a wall for several moments, letting the silence of the room envelop him. Looking down at the table, he picked up the letter his father had sent him shortly after Sansa had left for Riverrun the month before.

 _Edric,_

 _It's good to hear from you. I imagine Winterfell is much colder now that winter is upon us. We are all doing quite well. Your brother and Lord Tarly are sailing east in search of the last Greyjoys, and I hear that Margaery is pregnant. Jayne sends her love from the Eyrie, and she is also expecting a child. Visenya is doing well after your new sister's birth, and I hope you have a chance to see them soon._

Edric stopped reading, looking up at the wall. Edwyn and Jayne were busy making children with their new spouses, and even his father's second wife was including herself in all that happiness.

Meanwhile, he was busy freezing his balls off in the North, wishing that things with his wife would be… different.

He looked back at the letter and kept reading.

 _I hope that this news will bring you some comfort. Winterfell isn't exactly the capital or our home back in Ashford, and the North isn't exactly the most hospitable place in Westeros. Still, the people there are strong and hardy, with a deep sense of honour that I respect. They are also very loyal to their own, so you have your work cut out for you._

 _I know that things have not been easy for you, since you lost your eye. As a father, my first and most important duty is to protect my children, and I failed you in that regard. I'm sorry, Edric. But you are my son, and I love you. You are descended from the likes of Aegon the Conqueror and Aemon the Dragonknight. You can and you will endure whatever hardships you face._

 _I also know that not having the respect of your people is not nearly as hard as not having the love of your wife. I wish I could say that I know what it is like, marrying someone I've never met to satisfy a political alliance, but both of my marriages were made out of love and brought me no new lands or advantages. So, all I can say is to be patient. I know you well enough to know that you were hoping I would have all the answers, that I could give you some magical advice that would allow you to sweep Sansa off her feet._

 _Truthfully, I don't. Sansa has endured much suffering, and part of that involved being betrothed and married to people she either hated or did not want. The idea of marriage has been tainted in her mind, and it brings a lot of painful memories. All I can say to help you is to let matters play out as they will. If you are patient with her, and give her time, I know she will come to see the amazing man my son has grown up to become. Show her that you are kind and honest, and she will come around._

 _With much love,_

 _Father_

Edric placed the letter back on the table. He had read it several times by now, examining every word for some hidden clue or cleverly concealed advice. Alas, there was none, and his father spoke the truth when he said he had no magical advice. He would just have to wait and see how his relationship with Sansa would unfold.

If they even had a relationship.

Just then, the door opened and his wife stepped inside. As she closed it, he offered her a smile, though inwardly he felt more depressed than happy. "I'm glad that you enjoyed your trip to Riverrun."

"Thank you for suggesting it" Sansa said, removing her fur cloak.

"Anything that makes you happy makes me happy."

She idly wrung her hands together. "I… thought of not coming back."

An all-too familiar lump in his throat formed. "Why did you?"

"Because this is my home" Sansa replied, gesturing around the room. "It has always been my home. I was born here, I grew up here. I spent so many years in the capital, a prisoner of the Lannisters, that I'd almost forgotten what Winterfell even looked like. When you and your father came with an army and Dragons and told me that I could go home again, I almost didn't believe it. I still can't believe that all my tormentors are dead and I'm back."

Edric stood and took a few steps over to her. "Sansa, you are my wife now. I know that you never wanted something like that, and if you never want to have me, then I'm prepared to accept that. The point is that I care for you, more than you could ever know, and I want you to be happy. I will do everything in my power to make that happen. Growing up, I was the son of two bastards with nothing to their names. I never expected to become a lord, let alone Warden of the North, but I am."

He took her hands in his, and she looked him in the eye.

"As much as I do care for you, I don't expect anything from you. But the people of the North are my responsibility. You know them, and they know you. They respect you. I'm asking you to work with me, because we can only do this together, and Winter is Coming."

Her eyes flashed at hearing her family's words, and she nodded.

Nodding in turn, Edric slowly walked over to the window, giving Sansa the needed privacy. He gazed out at the cold, dark night, hearing nothing for a few moments. Then, he heard rustling as his wife stripped to her night clothes and got under the fur covers, resisting the urge to peek. Once he knew she was done, he removed his sword belt and propped his weapon against a nearby wall. He then took off his boots and coat, then got under the fur covers beside his wife.

"Good night, my lady" he said with his back to her.

"Good night, my lord" she said.

Edric had trouble sleeping that night.

* * *

 _ **The Wall...**_

"You came to us for different reasons", Jon Snow said, "but you're all here now."

Rolfe, a veteran Ranger of the Night's Watch, looked down at the massive gathering of new recruits from the platform. This was the bastard's first initiation speech since becoming Lord Commander.

"Whatever families you had, whatever lives you had, all that's in the past" he continued. "The Night's Watch is your family now. These men will be your brothers. When you're North of the Wall, freezing your balls off in the Frostfangs, they're the ones who you turn to to help you keep warm. When you're faced with a Wildling's spear or Shadowcat's claws, they're the ones who you turn to when you need to stay alive."

The group was at least several hundred strong, and they looked up at the northern bastard as the sky spat out endless snows.

This was only the first of many; the new king, 'Drakon Blackfyre', was still sending men to the Wall by the dozens. In addition to the usual thieves and rapers, they were mostly sons of displaced lords and men who had taken up arms against him, but had been allowed to live and take the black.

Rolfe gripped the wooden railing tightly, his anger rising at the thought of that miserable shit on the Iron Throne.

He had lost feeling in his fingers from the cold several minutes ago.

"The Night's Watch protects the realm from what lies beyond the Wall. We live and die at our posts. No one in the south will know your names. No one will sing songs about you. But without us, those prim, proper lords and ladies wouldn't be able to sleep safely in their beds. Now, you've all been assigned to an order based on our needs and your abilities. Some of you will be sent to the other castles, but most of you will remain here. Darren to the Builders, Markyn to the Rangers..."

As he read off the list of names and their assignments, Rolfe happened to look to his right and see Shireen Baratheon, daughter of the late Stannis Baratheon, watching the proceedings. The little girl stared at the group with wonder, the leathery, Greyscaled part of her face shifting as she smiled.

When Drakon Blackfyre had come to Castle Black, his soldiers had restrained all the black brothers and killed many of Stannis' soldiers. She and Stannis' Hand, Davos Seaworth, had covered themselves in cloaks and hid in the larder, managing to stay alive until the king and his men had moved on from the Wall.

Now, they stayed here at the end of the world, the daughter and servant of a disgraced traitor.

The Onion Knight came through the mess hall doors and picked up the Greyscaled girl. "Princess, you can't go and stay in the open like this."

"But I want to watch" she protested.

"These aren't the sort of men you want to be near for too long." He then took her inside and closed the door.

Rolfe admired the man. He had lost nearly everything when Stannis and his forces had fallen, and yet he persevered, protecting the sweetest little girl in the world. In many ways, she had lost one father only to gain another.

Eventually, the speech ended. The new recruits walked over to the First Ranger, Builder, and Steward, waiting to take their vows.

Jon Snow walked up the stairs and came to stand by Rolfe.

"Lord Commander."

"Rolfe."

"It was a good speech. I almost cheered."

The bastard snorted. "Well, had to give 'em some reason to be excited for this life. If nothing else, this new Blackfyre king has sent us a lot of capable recruits; we've almost tripled our numbers in the last month."

"Aye" the Ranger said, barely keeping himself composed. "He's our lord and saviour."

The Lord Commander glanced at him. "Believe me, I share your frustration. His men killed a dozen brothers when he attacked us, and he butchered Stannis and many of his men. And now, his son is living in my childhood home, and my sister was forced to marry him. I want nothing more than to ride south and see her, but I can't. As much as I might not like the man, he has fucking Dragons! Did you ever think you would see one, let alone two? Besides, it's not our place to be a part of southern politics. Whether we like him or not, he's the new king, so we can't afford to go riding off and doing something stupid."

Rolfe could feel Jon Snow's eyes on him, and he knew what he was really talking about. "Don't worry about me, lad. I'll keep to my vow."

With that, he walked off, clenching his hands into tight fists.

* * *

 **Did y'all see episode 2 last night? Because JESUS F*CKING CHRIST, that ending left me speechless. Seeing just how epic the show is makes me so excited to show you guys and gals what I have in store for this story!**

 **Never fear! All shall be revealed in time.**

 **Many of you asked for Jon Snow, and here he is! Needless to say, the Northern storyline will play out quite differently than on the show due to Ramsay's date with Drakon's thumbs and boot.**

 **Please favourite/review! Constructive criticism is welcome!**


	5. Family

_**King's Landing**_ …

"Oh, yes!"

Drakon stared into the eyes of his sister as he thrust into her. He held her arms against the bed, feeling her hot breath against his face. They were joined as one flesh, their skin gleaming with sweat as she panted. The cool night air blew in from outside, providing yet another sensation for the siblings to feel.

Visenya wrapped her legs around his, passionately kissing Drakon on the lips. As he relished the taste of her lips, she suddenly rolled him onto his back.

She leaned back with a smirk and started rolling her hips. She ran a hand through her long silver hair and closed her eyes, groaning in pleasure. Her brother reached up and squeezed her large, shapely breasts in his strong hands, causing her to groan even louder. Visenya then pushed his hands aside and placed her own on his broad chest. She stared into his eyes and began rocking back and forth.

They were both children of Maelys, descendants of Daemon Blackfyre and Aegon the Conqueror. They were Dragons, and none could stand against them. Brother and sister competed against each other, trying to show their dominance.

Grunting, Drakon used his prodigious strength to get up and force Visenya on her hands and knees. He then entered her again, tightly grasping her hips as he thrust into her.

She grunted with every thrust, practically growling like an animal as they both felt waves of pleasure. It built and built, until finally they both cried out in mutual ecstasy. With laboured breath, they collapsed onto the bed, taking comfort in each other's arms as sleep wrapped them in its warm embrace.

A few hours later, Drakon found himself standing out on the balcony. He looked down at the city, watching as it slept.

He could remember seeing it for the first time as a child, remembering how the high walls and massive structures had easily intimidated a toddler who had just lost his mother and father. Ser Barristan had held him while he and then-Prince Aerys had walked to the Red Keep, comforting him and bringing him before the king.

Drakon sighed, wondering how the man who had essentially raised him was doing on the far side of the world. What would he think? Would he hate the boy he had taught for taking the Iron Throne from Daenerys, or would he be proud that that boy had grown to reclaim the throne for the Dragons?

Just then, he felt Visenya's arms wrapping around his broad chest. He could feel her naked body pressing against his back. "Are you coming back to bed, my king?"

"Soon, my queen" he replied, placing a hand over hers. "I was just… reflecting on the past."

She stepped over to his side, and he wrapped an arm around her as she rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm sure your children will be glad to see you again."

"I know in my heart that they're prepared for anything" he said. "I like to think I raised them well. But a father never stops worrying, I suppose. Daemon and Rhaenyra will grow up as royalty, heirs to the Black Dragon. Jayne and Edric and Edwyn never had that kind of expectation placed on them. They grew up to depend on themselves and their own merits, not on their inherent superiority like the Lannisters did."

"They have grown up to be fine lords and lady" Visenya agreed. "This royal tour will also remind the people as to whom they owe allegiance. They will have the chance to see their king as I see him: a great, fierce ruler who stands on the shoulders of his ancestors and towers above all others."

Drakon looked down at his sister, and saw in her violet eyes the pure love she felt for him, the same that he felt for her. He leaned down and gently kissed her on the lips as they drank in the silent night.

A minute later, she said "And soon, I will give you another child, another prince or princess."

Drakon arched an eyebrow. "You can tell just now?"

"I know it in my heart" Visenya replied, taking his hand and placing it over her belly. "I've seen it in my dreams; I will give you three children, three heads of the Dragon."

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Olene strode through the corridors of the Great Pyramid, having just gone to check on Ser Barristan. His injuries were still healing, but the healers said that he had a good chance of recovery. The old knight's encounter with the Sons of the Harpy had nearly killed him, but he possessed a strength of spirit and bravery that outshone all others.

The Braavosi woman could only admire the man. He stood as the truest expression of knighthood, of service, of courage and honour. It would be a terrible loss if he died, as only petty sadists would want to kill him.

She eventually came outside, onto a balcony that overlooked the great city of Meereen, a city that was a hairsbreadth away from tearing itself apart.

Olene stopped as she saw Tyrion Lannister standing at the edge, staring off into the distance. He turned to look at her, and she said "Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to intrude."

She started to walk away, but he said "No, that's alright. I was just… taking some time to myself."

After a moment's hesitation, she joined him at the balcony's edge, leaning against the stone as she looked out at the bay. Olene surreptitiously glanced at him, unsure as to how to proceed, until she eventually said "I'm sorry. For your family."

He snorted. "It's funny. Most of my family hated me. My father, my sister; they despised me at every turn, all except my brother Jaime. I hated my father, but as odd as it may sound, I loved my sister. And now you tell me that this… Drakon Blackfyre took the Iron Throne and slaughtered my entire family." He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. "Are you sure he got everyone? What about Tommen, and Myrcella?"

Olene sighed. "From what I overheard, Myrcella was killed in Dorne. Tommen was allowed to live and sent to the Wall, but on the way his caravan ran into an 'accident'. Whether the new queen ordered it in secret, or whether Drakon had a change of heart, we don't know. All we know is that everyone with the name Lannister in Westeros was put to death, and you are the last."

Tyrion sat down, leaning against the stone edge as he stared at the ground. "He slaughtered my entire family, just as my father had the Targaryens butchered all those years ago. Some would call that justice."

"I don't" Olene said. "It is not justice to murder children and innocents, those who had nothing to do with what happened twenty one years ago."

The dwarf looked up at her. "That's kind of you to say."

"What are you going to do now?"

He was silent for a minute. Then, he said "I think I'll have a drink with your queen." Olene smirked, offering him a hand. He took it, and the Braavosi woman proceeded to lead him into the pyramid. A few minutes later, and Tyrion was sitting across from the queen in her chambers.

As he poured wine into their cups, she asked "So have you decided yet? Whether I'm worthy of your service?"

"Have you decided yet whether you're going to have me killed?"

"It's probably my safest option."

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "I can see why you would think so. It's what your father would have done."

Olene glanced at the queen as she countered "And what would your father have done?"

He took a sip of wine and replied "My father? Who publicly sentenced me to death? I'd say his thoughts on having me killed were abundantly clear."

"Is that why you killed him?"

"Someday, if you decide not to execute me, I'll tell you all about why I killed my father. And on that day, should it ever come, we'll need more wine than this."

The queen picked up her cup, staring at it. "I know what my father was. What he did. I know the Mad King earned his name."

"And now, Drakon Blackfyre is assuming that mantle. So, here we sit: the last surviving members of our houses. Two terrible children of two terrible fathers."

"I'm terrible?" the queen asked.

"I've heard stories" Tyrion replied. "It seems the Blackfyre king isn't the only one who feeds people to his Dragons or has them burned alive."

"Why did you travel to the other side of the world to meet someone terrible?"

"To see if you were the right kind of terrible."

"Which kind is that?"

"The kind that prevents your people from being even more so."

"I did reopen the Fighting Pits. Under my rule, murder will once again become entertainment."

"Yes, that was wise. And you agreed to marry someone you loathed for the greater good. Very impressive. My own sister married someone she loathed as well, though not by choice and certainly not for the greater good, gods forbid. She ended up having him killed."

"Perhaps it won't come to that."

Tyrion looked at her, swirling the wine in his cup. Eventually, he said "You intend to rule through wisdom and kindness. Violence has its place, but you only use it as a last resort. Despite everything that's happened to you, you still have a gentle heart. Drakon Blackfyre does not. He claimed the Iron Throne by slaughtering my entire family, everyone with the name Lannister, and by massacring his enemies. That's the sort of king your father was, and that's not the kind of ruler I want to serve."

"So you're saying I'm worthy of your service?" the queen asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm saying that I believe you to be a more worthy ruler, Daenerys Stormborn." The dwarf held up his cup, smirking as he drank the rest of the wine. "Whatever Drakon Blackfyre is, I will never serve him. I will help you take back your family's throne from him."

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**


	6. Lady Royce

_**The Vale…**_

Jayne smiled as she rode Ebony, feeling the wind whipping at her face. Her oldest friend's black hide almost gleamed in the sunlight. The young woman could remember when he was born, back when her family lived in Ashford. The little black foal had seemed to be balancing on stilts, falling onto the grass half the time, but he had since grown into a strong, powerful animal that was as sure-footed as any other horse.

Riding had been Jayne's favourite pastime since she was a little girl. It always gave her the feeling of freedom. She could go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted. No matter her troubles, she could mount Ebony and fly with the wind.

Eventually, she brought her friend to a stop at the edge of a cliff that overlooked much of the valley. The Vale was certainly one of the more striking places she had ever seen. The steep mountains provided a natural defense against any invaders, effectively closing it off from the rest of Westeros. Jayne knew that it had stayed out of the War of Five Kings, and since it had not been conquered like other regions during her father's conquest, it was almost entirely untouched by the wars of the last several years.

Hearing the sound of hooves behind her, Jayne turned Ebony around and saw the group of guards that were escorting her. They looked to be just catching up to her, and she smirked.

"My lady", one of them said, "perhaps it would be best if we returned to the Eyrie?"

"Very well" she said. "Try and keep up."

With that, she urged Ebony forward, running past the guards and laughing as they tried their best to keep up with her. Eventually, she made her way across the narrow road that led to the mountain castle. After passing through the third and final way-castle, she rode through the front gate of the Eyrie. Ebony's hooves _clip clopped_ on the stone as she trotted inside, and one of the stable boys came over to take the reins while a guard placed a step beside the black horse.

Jayne dismounted, stepping onto the ground and making her way inside. As she removed her riding gloves, she crossed through the High Hall, glancing up at the throne of Weirwood and the circular Moon Door in the floor.

She'd heard stories of people being thrown through that door. The drop to the mountains below was hundreds of feet, and it was the preferred method of execution in the Vale.

It did seem preferable to chopping someone's head off or hanging them, she supposed.

Once in her chambers, she stood in front of the vanity as her handmaiden, Adrya, removed her riding clothes. Jayne looked at herself in the mirror, dressed only in her undergarments. She ran a hand over her belly, which was just beginning to grow with the new life inside her. "Which outfit would you prefer, m'lady?" Adrya asked, holding up a pair of dresses that women in the Vale seemed to favour. The local style was quite different than what she had gotten used to in the Reach and the Crownlands, and it was something she was still adjusting to. There only seemed to be limited colours, and they were all faded, which made her a little sad every time she looked at them.

"That one" Jayne said, pointing to the sky blue-coloured dress.

Adrya, who seemed to be staring, shook her head and smiled. "Did you have a pleasant ride?" she asked as she fitted the dress.

"Very much. Of course I've read all about the mountains of the Vale, but to actually see them racing by me… it's incredible. They're so beautiful and striking; only my father's Dragons could match the sight."

The red-headed woman, who was only a year younger than Jayne, smiled as she finished. She then went to work brushing her hair and delicately plaiting it.

A short time later, Jayne found herself eating supper with her new father-in-law, Lord Yohn Royce. His son and heir, Andar Royce, her new husband, sat next to her at his father's right. Night had fallen, and the room was lit by candles as servants stood to the side.

The young woman surreptitiously glanced at Andar. At thirty six years of age, he was eighteen years her senior, but she had to admit that he was quite handsome, with a full, black beard and grey eyes. When the time came for their child to be born, she was positive that he or she would be beautiful.

In order to distract herself from that line of thought, she cut off a piece of meat and ate it. After swallowing, she said "This venison is delicious, my lord. I'm sure the hunt went very well."

Her father-in-law nodded. "Yes, it was a fine hunt."

"A fine hunt" Andar echoed. "That deer gave us quite the chase, but we rode it down."

"I'm assuming you killed it yourself?" she asked her husband. "The greatest hunters can always kill what they chase."

He sat a little straighter in his chair, smirking with pride. "In fact, I did. Ran it through with a spear myself."

"So courageous" Jayne said, inwardly smiling to herself.

Andar may have had the emotional depth of a tree stump, or at least less than what she would ideally want, but he did possess a great strength of character that he inherited from his father. He appreciated warrior pursuits of hunting and fighting, and she knew that while she herself was not terribly interested in those things, she had to play the part of a good wife.

"My brother Daemon's first Nameday is in a few months. I expect my father to throw a Tourney for the occasion."

"To be expected" the elder Royce agreed. "It'll be the first Tourney the realm has seen since your father took the Iron Throne."

Jayne turned to Andar and said "It would be the perfect opportunity for you to display your riding prowess, husband. I'm sure that not many could defeat you in any contest."

He smirked, then looked down at the table sadly. "Samwell always did."

Lord Royce froze mid-cut, and Jayne winced. Samwell had been one of her father's most trusted and able knights, able to beat most anyone in a fight. Despite having known him for most of her life, she did not know every detail of what had happened between him and his family. What she did know was that it was a difficult subject.

"Maester Colemon tells me that he's been teaching you of the history of the Vale at your request" her father-in-law said, changing the subject.

"Yes" Jayne said, drinking from her cup. "I wish to learn more of my new home."

He smiled approvingly. "That's very good of you. And has the Maester determined how long until your child will be born?"

Maintaining her composure, she swallowed a bite of cheese and replied "He says it should be six months, and thus far, we are both healthy."

"Good. I'm sure your father will be pleased to hear it when he arrives tomorrow."

Jayne smiled. "It will be so good to see him." After supper, she and her husband returned to their room. Andar closed the door, and she walked over to the bed, glancing out the window. "It was such a lovely meal—" she started to say as she turned around, but was cut off as he pressed his lips against hers. He placed a hand on her back, and Jayne resigned herself to what was happening. She had hoped for a little more conversation, some intimacy, before laying with him, but he seemed to have other things on his mind.

Pushing her desire for emotional intimacy to the back of her mind, Jayne focused on the physical pleasure, returning Andar's kiss as she helped him take off his shirt. She ran her hands over his tight, muscular body, appreciating his raw physicality before reaching down and untying the strings of his breeches.

She might as well enjoy herself.

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Olene followed a step behind the queen as she and Tyrion Lannister took a leisurely stroll along one of the high walls that separated the Great Pyramid from the rest of Meereen. The sun was beginning to set, bathing the horizon in brilliant orange as the clouds passed overhead.

"Interesting" Tyrion said as he read over the letter which Olene had received from Drakon Blackfyre. "He's certainly a clever man."

"Clever?" the queen asked in amazement. "The bastard was gloating about how he stole my throne."

"To be sure" the dwarf agreed. "But he also placed all the burden on you. If you decide to press your claim to the Iron Throne, and he makes it known that he offered you a chance to come home peacefully, then you would be vilified by the people. You would be seen as a dangerous upstart trying to overthrow the rightful king. Rather like the Blackfyres of old, which makes it ironic that a Targaryen is now looking to overthrow a Blackfyre king."

"What do you know of his family?" the queen asked. "He said that his House was descended from mine."

"You and I should really make a point to study the history of our country at some point" he said. "The Blackfyres are descended from Daemon Blackfyre, one of the many bastards of Aegon IV, your great-great-great grandfather. Aegon legitimized them all before he died, and he gave Daemon the ancestral Targaryen Valyrian Steel sword, Blackfyre, the namesake of the House."

"So they do have Targaryen blood?"

"Oh, yes. Daemon tried to assert his claim to the throne against his brother, Daeron, but that rebellion cost him his life. His sons fled east, just like you and your brother, and over the next eighty years, the Blackfyres led several rebellions against the throne. All of them failed, and with the death of 'Maelys the Monstrous' over forty years ago, the world thought that the Blackfyre line was ended. But, it appears that Maelys had the prescience to father a son before his demise."

"And that son now rules over my kingdom" the queen said, her voice tinged with bitterness.

Later, once the sun had set, the Braavosi woman found herself in the home provided for her by the queen for her loyal service. She heaved the contents of her stomach into her chamber pot, gripping the wall tightly as she slowly recovered. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stood and, after drinking some water, sat down on the bed. She felt her stomach flutter as she anticipated Kovarro's return, for several reasons.

Just then, the front door opened, and the Dothraki Bloodrider stepped inside. He smiled upon seeing her and said in his language "Moon of my life."

"My sun and stars" Olene said, also smiling as they embraced in a loving kiss. She opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated.

"What is it?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

Eventually, she took his hand and placed it on her belly. "I am with child" she said, biting her bottom lip as she waited for his reaction.

His mouth fell open, and for a moment, he did not speak. Then, he pressed his lips against hers with a renewed passion, and she held onto him tightly. "This is a gift from the Great Stallion!" he exclaimed, laughing loudly and excitedly.

Olene relished his excitement, the warm feeling of pure joy spreading through her body.

* * *

 **I just want to take a moment and thank you all for the reviews. It's so gratifying to have such a positive response this early in the story, because BELIEVE ME, things will start picking up very soon.**

 **TheTrickster96: Thanks! One of my goals with this story is to not have one side be 'right' and one side 'wrong'. That would be a) unrealistic b) lazy writing c) not in keeping with the themes of the show. There are arguments for both factions, and I want to show how people could follow either Drakon or Daenerys. While there are people like the Tullys or the Tyrells who are loyal to Drakon, there are people like Tyrion or the Greyjoys who have been marked for death, and join Daenerys for survival and revenge.**

 **Please review/favourite!**


	7. Father and Daughter

_**The next day…**_

Drakon urged his black horse forward, and it slowly began walking as the gates of the third and final waycastle opened before him. He was flanked by Ser Loras, Ser Prester, and Ser Balon Swann, and the rest of the royal caravan rode behind him.

They made their way along the narrow path that led to the Eyrie, which towered above them all as it dominated the landscape. A thunderous cry sounded from above as a shadow eclipsed the caravan for several seconds, and it was followed by a second shadow, equally as large. Drakon looked up to see Rhaegon and Maelion flying high in the sky, higher than the Eyrie. The Dragons had grown into monstrous proportions; their heads were the size of carriages, while their sharpened teeth were as long as swords and their wings as wide as the Red Keep was tall. Rhaegon's silver scales and golden wings shone brilliantly in the sunlight, while Maelion's bronze scales and golden wings were equally as bright.

The steady _whump whump_ sound of their flapping wings, even from so high above, could be heard as the royal caravan made its way to the Eyrie.

The front gates opened, and Drakon rode into the courtyard, followed by the rest of the caravan. Waiting for them was Lord Royce, his family, and the rest of his household. The horses' hooves _clip clopped_ on the stone, and he came to a stop in front of the gathering. The muscular man dismounted, and the Kingsguard did the same. Ser Balon Swann opened the door of the carriage, and Visenya stepped out, looking radiant as ever in a black dress with silver Dragon heads embroidered on it.

The king held out his arm for his queen, and they walked over to the gathering. "Your Grace" Lord Royce greeted as he and the rest of his household kneeled before him.

"Rise, Lord Royce" Drakon said. "By law, we are brothers now. We shouldn't have to observe such rigid protocol."

They all stood, and the Warden of the East smirked. "Quite right" he said, inclining his head as they shook hands.

The king then turned to the heir of the Vale, who looked proud and strong in a white surcoat over unadorned steel armour. "Andar."

"Your Grace" the younger man said, inclining his head.

Drakon then smiled as he beheld his daughter. "Jayne" he said, kissing her on the forehead and embracing her in a loving hug.

"It's so good to see you, father" she said, wrapping her arms around him.

He took a step back and looked down at her growing belly. "Look at you. It seems just like yesterday that you came into this world. And now you're expecting a child of your own. I couldn't be happier for you, my sweet little girl."

"Thank you, father" Jayne said. Her smile faltered for half a second as she glanced down at the ground. It was almost too quick to see, but he did.

Letting it go for the moment, he stepped aside as Visenya greeted Lord Royce and his son. She then came to Jayne, and both women smiled as they kissed each other on the cheek and embraced. Drakon knew that none of his children had gotten particularly close to his second wife since their marriage, but he was thankful that they were on friendly terms, at least.

Both of Visenya's handmaidens emerged from the carriage, carrying Daemon and Rhaenyra in their arms. The two infants appeared to be fully awake after their nap, and Drakon smirked as Visenya took Daemon and Jayne took Rhaenyra.

He stared at his family, smiling. After the horrors he had witnessed, the losses he had suffered from his first days, part of him had never expected to be so happy. For a time, he and Jocelyn had found bliss, living in the Reach and raising their children in peace. After her death, he had almost let depression pull him down into a dark, empty abyss of regret. That experience, as well as the day Rhaegar and his family had been slaughtered, had taught him just how cruel and miserable the world could be. Visenya had helped him to understand: if he wanted happiness, then he had to take it for himself.

Not even the Seven Kingdoms could properly compare to the love he felt for his wife and children.

Later, after having eaten a grand feast Lord Royce had had prepared, Drakon found himself wandering through the castle. Visenya was sleeping in their provided-for chamber with Daemon and Rhaenyra, so while Ser Benedict and Ser Eustace watched over them, the rest of the Kingsguard escorted their king.

The muscular man rested a hand on the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancestral Targaryen sword and his House's namesake which he always carried on his person, as he aimlessly strode through the corridors. The only time he had visited the Eyrie was for Jayne and Andar's wedding, so he was interested in exploring a little. He encountered the occasional servant or guard, and they all bowed as they stood aside. Eventually, he came to a rounded corridor, and saw Jayne sitting by a window, staring out at the mountains.

Drakon turned to the Kingsguard and said "Give us some privacy."

"Your Grace" Ser Loras said, bowing as he and the others walked over to both ends of the corridor.

The muscular man then sat down beside his daughter. She smiled at him, then said "The mountains here are so beautiful. There was nothing quite like them back home in Ashford or Dragon's Rest."

Drakon nodded. For a moment, they sat there in silence, staring out the window. Eventually, he turned to face his daughter and took her hands in his. "Jayne, are you happy here? Truly happy?"

She smiled, though he could tell it was slightly forced. "Of course, father. I—"

"Jayne. I am your father. You can tell me anything, my sweet." She was silent, staring down at the floor, and he asked "Does it have anything to do with your child?"

Her eyes became misty, and he gently turned her face so that she was looking at him. That seemed to be enough to break down her façade. "I'm terrified of having this child, father. I lie awake at night, remembering how mother died giving birth. When I do sleep, I dream of what might happen with my child. I held my baby brother in my arms, but he was dead. What if… what if the same thing happens to me? What if I die bringing him or her into this world, and they have to grow up without their mother? Or what if they die, and I have to hold my dead son or daughter in my arms?"

Drakon wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders as she rested her head against him, tears flowing from her eyes. As a father, his first and most important duty was to protect his children, to keep them safe from harm. The last year had taught him that he could not protect them from everything, despite his best efforts; Edric's maiming, and Jayne having to adjust to life by herself in a strange place, were bitter lessons to him.

"Everything will be alright, Jayne" he soothed, holding her close. "I had the same fear that you do. When Visenya was giving birth to Daemon, I was petrified of what might happen, of losing her the same way I lost your mother. But I didn't. You are my daughter, my eldest child, which means that you are the descendent of kings. You are Blood of the Dragon, which means that you will get through this, I know it. You and your brothers are strong, and there is no challenge you cannot overcome."

"I've missed you, father" she croaked.

He kissed her on the head. "I've missed you too, Jayne. I may not be here for you every day, but I can take some comfort in the fact that your husband is an honourable man, and his family is noble and trustworthy."

Jayne snorted, sitting up straight and wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Yes, he is honourable and strong and handsome, but…"

"But what?"

She appeared hesitant, but eventually she replied "I always imagined that my future husband and I would fall in love and spend a lifetime in each other's arms. Andar is certainly a fine husband, better than most, but I just don't feel… close with him. He never mistreats me, but he also never engages in conversation that often. I want to build an emotional connection, but he doesn't seem interested in all that."

Drakon smiled sympathetically. "The world rarely lives up to our imagination" he reminded her. "I wish you could have married for love. Perhaps, in another life, you and Derryk might have found some happiness together."

Jayne's expression turned sad at the mention of the bastard who had stayed with them at Dragon's Rest for a time.

"If there is anything I've learned, then happiness is something that you have to take for yourself. Life rarely gives you the opportunities you seek, so you have to claim what you can. Take it and never let go, for it might disappear in the blink of an eye."

"Thank you, father" she said gratefully, smiling at him.

They sat there for a while, staring out at the mountains as the Black Dragon comforted his daughter.

* * *

 _ **To the east…**_

Edwyn Blackfyre rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in bed. His cabin was mostly dark, but there was some sunlight streaming in, meaning that morning had come. He pulled the covers off and stood up, spending a few minutes cracking his knuckles and back as well as stretching.

His hair, which used to be a shaggy mop like his brother's, was now close-cut, and he had chosen to keep his face clean-shaven.

Once he was fully awake, he stepped over to a nearby drawer and poured himself a glass of water. On the wall opposite the door hung a black suit of armour decorated with thorny vines along with a finely made sword and a shield depicting a black Dragon's head breathing vines.

Taking a deep breath, Edwyn put down the cup and put on a dark green tunic and a pair of black pants. After strapping his boots on, and his sword belt, he walked out of his cabin.

The various soldiers and sailors he passed bowed to him as he walked by. Eventually, he climbed a set of stairs onto the deck, where he was bathed in the hot morning sun. He took a moment to breathe in the sea air, then spotted a familiar face standing by the wheel. The Lord of Highgarden walked over to the man, coming to stand beside him. "Lord Tarly" he greeted.

"My lord" the older man said, inclining his head.

"Our hunt has led us to interesting places" Edwyn noted, leaning against the railing.

"Indeed. Let us hope that this 'Mother of Dragons' will cooperate. If not…"

"Then she will quickly learn the words of my house: We Shall Reap."

Randyll Tarly smirked as the 100 ships, half of the House Redwyne Fleet, sailed across Slaver's Bay. Off in the distance, the Great Pyramid of Meereen could be seen, and Edwyn steeled himself for the encounter with his father's greatest rival.

* * *

 **Last night's episode… damn, it left me speechless once again.**

 **I'd like to think that if I had a daughter, I'd try to have the same kind of loving relationship Drakon has with Jayne. For all his faults, his love for his children is pure, unlike Cersei and her children (people say that it's the one thing that humanizes her, but I believe it's actually another facet of her selfish personality and she only loves how they make her feel good about herself). Family is the most important thing to him, seeing as he lost his… twice, and his children's happiness and well-being are top priorities for him.**

 **And as for the ending scene, well… I suspect that events are going to come to a head very soon.**

 **TheTrickster96: You'll just have to wait and see. ;)**

 **Please review/favourite!**


	8. Hardhome

_**North of the Wall…**_

Rolfe looked out at the village of Hardhome as they rowed to shore. The aged, worn down settlement was now home to every Wildling that had fled after the new king, Drakon Blackfyre, had slaughtered Stannis Baratheon and part of his army.

The grizzled Ranger looked down at the water, staring at his reflection. If the stories were true, then this Drakon Blackfyre had murdered Sebastion, his real son, and taken his place before claiming power for himself. Rolfe scowled, feeling his insides boiling. He'd never done much good in his life, but over the last forty five years, the knowledge that his son was alive down south had kept him going.

Now, he was left with the knowledge that his son had been dead for twenty years.

The boat rocked, and he returned his attention to the task at hand. He had accompanied the newly promoted Lord Commander, Jon Snow, along with Tormund Giantsbane and several brothers to Hardhome in order to convince the Wildling army to come south, to stay out of reach of the White Walkers and their army of the dead.

Behind them was Stannis Baratheon's old fleet, or what was left of it, which had been 'gifted' to the Night's Watch, with enough room for thousands of their ancient enemies. Since the new king had taken power, a number of supply caravans had been sent to Castle Black, along with a surge of new recruits who were all political enemies of the king.

At least there was one good thing about him.

They eventually came ashore, and Rolfe got out, helping the others push the boat onto the gravel. As the other boats landed, the Ranger looked out at the Wildlings arranged before them. Hundreds upon hundreds within the village walls, fur-wearing savages staring at them with a healthy mixture of suspicion, interest, and anger.

"Do you trust me, Jon Snow?" Tormund asked the Lord Commander.

"Does that make me a fool?"

"We're fools together, now."

"We'll probably die that way" Rolfe said, crossing his arms. "But once you start taking a shit, you can't stop. Just keep pushing until something comes out."

The ginger man chuckled. Not so long ago, the two men had been trying to kill each other at the Battle of Castle Black. Tormund had sliced him in the stomach before kicking him off a platform, and Rolfe still had the scar. Now, they were allies, trying to save the army of Wildlings that had tried to fight their way through the Wall. He had seen stranger things happen.

Even so, it still hurt when he had to take a shit.

They started walking forward, and Rolfe saw that a group was walking towards them. The onlookers parted, and the two groups met. The Ranger saw that they were led by none other than 'Rattleshirt' himself.

"Lord of Bones" Tormund greeted. "Been a long time."

The other man looked at the Lord Commander. "Last time I saw you, the little crow was your prisoner. The other way around now. What happened?"

"War."

"You call that a war? The greatest army the North has ever seen cut to pieces by a southern king."

"Well maybe it wasn't so great an army, then" Rolfe said with a smirk.

Rattleshirt glared at him. "Bad enough the little bastard's here, but now I've got to deal with you, Rolfe. How many of my people have you killed over the years?"

"Oh, I don't know. Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? Honestly, at this point, all of you look alike, so it's hard to keep track."

Tormund glanced at the Ranger before saying "We should gather the elders. Find somewhere quiet to talk."

"You don't give the orders around here."

"I'm not giving an order."

Rattleshirt looked him up and down. "Why aren't you in chains?"

"He's not my prisoner" Jon Snow explained.

"What is he?"

"We're allies now."

The mood instantly changed, and several of the Wildlings started coming closer. The Lord Commander and the others took a step back, while Rolfe stood where he was, his hands on his axes. Rattleshirt glared at Tormund and said "You fucking traitor! You fight for the crows now!"

"I don't fight for the crows" the ginger calmly countered.

"We're not here to fight. We're here to talk."

"Is that right? You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund. And when you're done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his cock—"

Suddenly, Tormund grabbed the other man's staff and smashed it into his face. He then proceeded to savagely beat him to death with it, grunting with every strike. Snow and the others took a step back, while Rolfe merely stared down at one of his oldest enemies dying. The Wildlings had their own way of doing things, their own code, and the veteran had seen many a man or woman killed over one slight or another in countless villages North of the Wall.

After beating Rattleshirt to death, Tormund dropped the staff. Several of the Wildlings had their weapons drawn and looked ready to fight, but the ginger man seemed unperturbed. "Gather the elders and let's talk."

With that, he and Snow and several others made their way to one of the larger huts in the village. Rolfe joined them, looking around at the faces of men and women from dozens of different tribes who would otherwise be slaughtering each other over barrels of fish. Suddenly, a large black shape appeared right beside his legs, and he recoiled at the black-furred feline that came up to his waist and looked large enough to kill a bear.

"Seven hells!" he hissed, taking a step back.

"What's the matter, Crow? Never seen a Shadowcat before?"

Rolfe turned and saw a tall, thin woman wearing a fur cloak that was the same black as the large predator. A wild mane of black hair framed a pale face with blue eyes and thick pink lips. "Oh aye, I've seen 'em before" he replied. "One was kind enough to give me its hide for my last cloak."

The woman smirked.

"So, you're a member of the Shadow Claws, then? Haven't seen your tribe in a long time. Did you get tired of us killing you and your pets?"

The Shadowcat growled, and Rolfe took a cautionary step back. "Don't mind Hildi. She's just saying 'hello'."

"Awfully kind words, considering you're wearing her mother's hide."

"She was only a cub when that happened. I raised her myself, just as every warrior of our tribe has done for generations. Chieftess Gjalda, in case you were wondering."

Rolfe frowned. "What happened to Chief Karvo?"

"My father was turned into a blue-eyed corpse last year. I had to throw him into our family's fireplace when he tried to eat my daughter." The Ranger nodded, and the Wildling chief gestured to the hut. "Best not keep the others waiting, shall we?"

They stepped inside, and the warmth from the fire was instantly felt. Rolfe took his place beside Lord Commander Snow as he started his pitch to the gathered chiefs, one of which was a Thenn.

Rolfe fucking hated Thenns.

"My name's Jon Snow. I'm Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. We're not friends. We've never been friends. We won't become friends today. This isn't about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a 700 foot wall between you and what's out there."

"You built that wall to keep us out" another Chieftess pointed out.

"Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?" the Thenn added.

"In normal times we wouldn't. But these aren't normal times. The White Walkers don't care if a man's Free Folk or Crow. We're all the same to them. Meat to their army. But together we can beat them."

"Beat the White Walkers?" the Chieftess asked. "Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe."

Gjalda petted her Shadowcat and asked "Why don't you get that new southern king of yours to fly his Dragons up here and burn every fucking one of those demons? They sure made short work of that other king you were siding with."

The Ranger and the Lord Commander exchanged a glance.

"He's not going to help us" Rolfe replied. "He only cares about his own ass sitting on the Iron Throne. Plus, he's more likely to have his Dragons roast all of you just so you won't be a threat."

"Besides, no one in the south believes that the White Walkers exist" Snow added. He took the bag slung around his shoulder and held it out to the Chieftess wearing clamshells. She looked at it hesitantly, and he said "It's not a trick. It's a gift for those who join us."

She opened the bag and took out a piece of Dragonglass, staring at it with wonder.

"Dragonglass. A man of the Night's Watch used one of these daggers to kill a walker."

"You saw this?" the Thenn asked.

"No. But I trust the man."

"There are old stories about Dragonglass" the Chieftess said.

"There are old stories about Ice Spiders big as hounds."

She looked at the Thenn and countered "And with the things we've seen, you don't believe them?

Rolfe and Snow exchanged a glance, and the latter said "Come with me and I'll share these weapons."

"Come with you where?"

"There are good lands south of the Wall. The Night's Watch will allow you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands."

The Wildling chiefs glanced at each other. Clearly, they were all hesitant to trust their ancestral enemies. Over forty years of ranging and fighting these people left Rolfe with the inescapable urge to distrust them, and while he would be just as happy to kill them and be done with it, he trusted his Lord Commander.

"I knew Mance Rayder" Snow said. "He never wanted a war with the Night's Watch; he wanted a new life for his people. For you. We're prepared to give you that new life."

"If…?"

"If you swear you'll join us when the real war begins."

"Where's Mance?" the Thenn asked.

All eyes turned to Snow, and Rolfe suddenly felt very uneasy. If any of them didn't like what he had to say, they'd be torn to pieces.

"He died."

"How?"

After a long pause, he replied "I put an arrow through his heart."

The entire hut rose in an uproar, and Rolfe shook his head. "Why'd you have to say it like that, bastard? Now we're all gonna die."

The various chiefs grabbed their weapons while they shouted, and he could see Gjalda's pet Shadowcat growling and baring its fangs as she sat forward.

"I say we send the Lord Commander back to Castle Black with no eyes" the Thenn suggested.

The Ranger drew his axes, ready for a fight.

Tormund stepped forward. "None of you saw Mance die! I did! The southern king who broke our army, Stannis, wanted to burn him alive to send a message. Jon Snow defied that cunt's orders. His arrow was a mercy. What he did took courage, and that's what we need today: the courage to make peace with men we've been fighting for generations."

The clamshell Chieftess said "I lost my father, my uncle, and two brothers fighting the damn Crows."

"I'm not asking you to forget your dead" Snow said. "I'll never forget mine. I lost fifty brothers the night Mance attacked the Wall. But I'm asking you to think about your children now. They'll never have children of their own if we don't band together. The Long Night is coming, and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The Free Folk can't stop them. The Night's Watch can't stop them. And all the southern kings and lords can't stop them. Only together, all of us, and even then it might not be enough, but at least we'll give the fuckers a fight!"

There were a few nods of approval.

"You vouch for this man, Tormund?"

The ginger man looked at Snow. "He's prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight. He's young, but he knows how to lead. He didn't have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us. And we need him."

The Thenn pursed his lips. "My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow."

"So would mine, but fuck 'em, they're dead." She walked over to Snow, looking him in the eye. "I'll never trust a man in black. But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we're with you."

"This is the way" he told them.

"I'm with Tormund" one of the chiefs said. "We stay here, and we're dead men. At least with King Crow there's a chance."

"I'm in" Gjalda said, petting her Shadowcat. "I've got eighty mouths to feed, and most of them are too young to fight. I need to look out for them."

A rumbling came from the far corner of the hut, and Rolfe nearly shit his pants as he beheld the Giant crouched there.

It looked over at them, and said in a deep voice "Tormund."

The Thenn picked up his axe. "Keep that new life you want to give us. Keep your glass, King Crow. Soon as you get on his ships they're gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the Shivering Sea. That's our enemy. That has always been our enemy."

With that, he walked out, along with most of the chiefs present.

Rolfe watched them leave, grumbling to himself as the clamshell Chieftess said "I fucking hate Thenns."

Tormund nodded.

With that, the Wildlings who decided to leave started to make their way onto the ships. The beach was occupied by frenzied activity as men, women, and children hurried over to the boats. There was a constant stream coming and going, carrying Wildlings onto the ships waiting out on the water.

Rolfe saw the clamshell Chieftess, whose name was Karsi, walk with her daughters over to the dock. He then turned and saw Gjalda walking over with a young girl who was probably her daughter. The girl held a tiny little Shadowcat cub in her arms.

"Your King Crow can sure make a speech" the Chieftess said.

"He sure can" Rolfe agreed. "That's why he's Lord Commander."

"He's handsome" the girl said, staring up at him.

"Come along, now" her mother said, smirking as she gently pushed her over to one of the boats. Just as they started getting on, the dogs started barking and howling, and Gjalda's Shadowcat growled. Everyone started looking around for the source of the animals' distress, and they looked up at the cliffs as a distant rumbling could be heard.

On the far side of the vast Wildling encampment, white snow clouds tumbled over the cliffs, towards the people. Rolfe had been North of the Wall enough times to know what an avalanche looked like.

This was no avalanche.

"Oh, fuck me."

"Later, if you survive" Gjalda said as she sat beside her daughter. Gesturing to her Shadowcat, she said "Make sure she comes back to me, or I'll find you and feed you your own balls." She then tilted her head back, and her eyes turned milky white as the Shadowcat extended and retracted its claws.

As the boat rowed away from the dock, Rolfe looked down at the black-furred creature. "A Warg, eh? Fucking perfect."

The creature growled at him as they walked towards the village wall.

The gates were closed as the rest of the Wildlings ran towards it, condemning the majority of them to what was coming. They pounded at the wall, screaming for help as the snow cloud came to envelop everything. Rolfe glanced at the Thenn from earlier, both men understanding that they were well and truly fucked.

Suddenly, the screams ended.

The Thenn cautiously walked over to the gate, looking between the boards and suddenly jumping back as a skeletal hand reached through. A series of inhuman growls came from the other side of the wall as resurrected bodies threw themselves against the timbers. A number of hands and arms pierced through, and Rolfe drew both his axes as the Warg-controlled Shadowcat growled.

A number of Wights tried climbing over the top of the wall, while others tried to claw their way through the wood, and the rest were digging through the dirt like mad dogs.

Several Wildlings shot them full of arrows, but Rolfe knew that there were too many.

Soon enough, Wights hopped over the wall or forced their way through holes or crawled through ditches, and the fight started as the Wildlings met them in battle. Rolfe roared as he struck one across the face with an axe, then cutting the leg off another before stomping its moist skull into paste.

A nearby Wildling woman was jumped and had her throat torn out, and the Shadowcat roared as it leaped onto the Wight, tearing it to pieces with its fangs and claws. A trio of Wildlings fired arrows before they were summarily slaughtered, and the Ranger knew that the enemy's superior numbers were slowly starting to win the tide.

A Wight tackled him to the ground, and he growled as it tried to bite at his neck. He used all his strength to hold it back, gritting his teeth as he tried to think of how to get it off. The Shadowcat appeared from nowhere and swiped the Wight's skull clean off with a large paw, and Rolfe rolled the corpse off of himself.

As he stood up, he turned and saw Lord Commander Snow, Tormund, and a fresh wave of Night's Watch and Wildlings.

They slammed into the Wights, cutting them down with sword and axe. The ginger was roaring and laughing as he threw himself into the fight in a berserker rage, while Snow cut through the corpses with his sword, Longclaw. He held back a Wight that was trying to come through a hole and said "Tormund! The sled!"

As the others went about getting the sled, Rolfe saw a half-rotten corpse charging at Snow's back. He hurled an axe at it, and the blade sunk into the skull, the force sufficient to knock it to the ground.

As they sealed the hole, Rolfe looked up and saw a number of riders on skeletal horseback. His mouth fell agape at the sight, for he knew just what the riders were.

The roar of the Shadowcat broke him from his reverie, and he returned his attention to the fight. Snow and the Thenn ran towards the hut in order to grab the Dragonglass, and just as Rolfe cut down a pair of Wights, the side of the hut exploded as the giant emerged. It was covered in Wights that crawled on its back like insects, and it roared like thunder as it shook them off, crushing others with its enormous feet.

A few minutes later, Jon Snow came stumbling out of the hut, followed by a White Walker in black armour. Rolfe felt his blood freeze at the sight, but nevertheless, he ran to the aid of his commander.

Before he could get there, Snow picked up his Valyrian Steel sword and blocked the walker's ice spear. Both of them stood there, eyes wide with surprise, until the Lord Commander took advantage of the surprise and sliced his sword through the walker, shattering it into a thousand fragments.

Rolfe started laughing with joy, but at that moment, the village wall started groaning under immense pressure. The Ranger groaned in annoyance and said "Oh, shit!" He ran over to Tormund and grabbed his arm. "Tormund! We have to get the fuck out of here!"

The ginger glanced at the wall just as it came crashing down, and a horde of Wights came rushing into the gap.

Both men shouted in fear as they turned and sprinted for the shore. An endless army of corpses chased after them, and Rolfe sliced one across the face as he and the others reached the broken dock. The Shadowcat ran beside him, hopping into one of the last two boats. Rolfe jumped into it as Snow, Tormund, and the rest got in the other one. "Start rowing, you sons of whores!" he shouted.

The Giant was still on the beach, swiping Wights aside with a burning log before smashing it down onto the ground. It then turned around and, with Wights crawling over it, waded into the water. Rolfe looked back at the Wildlings who hadn't made it as they were viciously torn apart by corpses and walkers.

The screams burned themselves into his memory as they rowed away.

Just as the last of them died, a figure slowly walked onto the dock. It was a White Walker, but it looked different than the others. It had black armour, but no beard, and its head featured spikes that formed a natural crown of sorts. It had a commanding presence, and Rolfe couldn't help but look at it as it stared at Jon Snow.

The walker slowly raised its arms, and all the corpses on the beach, in the village, and throughout the remnants of the Wildling camp rose, their eyes glowing blue.

Rolfe scowled at the army of corpses, knowing they had lost this battle.

* * *

 **Of all the garbage that came out of Season 5, this was probably my favourite episode. You can really tell where most of their budget went.**

 **Please review/favourite!**


	9. The Lord of Highgarden

_**In the east; near Meereen…**_

Edwyn leaned against the railing as he and Lord Tarly stared out at the horizon. They were sailing towards the city of Meereen, Daenerys Targaryen's current capital, in the young Blackfyre's flagship, which he called _Stranglethorn_. The other ninety nine ships waited in the waters of Slaver's Bay.

"Have you put a son in Margaery yet?" the older man asked.

The young Blackfyre snorted. "I should hope so. The Maester told me she was with child before we left, so I should know when we get back to Westeros."

"Good."

"I couldn't walk straight for days after our wedding night. Gods, the things that woman can do to a man."

Lord Tarly chuckled. "Your father raised you to be men. You know what's expected of you, what you need to do. I only wish my son Samwell could be that way. All he ever cared about was reading or sewing. Bah! A woman's pursuits. He was never fit to inherit my lands and title."

"Where is he now?" Edwyn asked.

"I sent him to the Night's Watch. At least they have a chance of making a man out of him."

Edwyn nodded, not quite sure what to say to that. His own father had been nothing but loving and supportive for him and his siblings, and he couldn't imagine having the kind of relationship Randyll Tarly had with his son. The man was hardened and unpleasant, but what mattered was his skill as a general and warrior. He was just the sort of person Edwyn wanted helping him hunt the Ironborn.

Just then, one of the crew cried out "Ship approaching!"

Sure enough, off in the distance, a ship was sailing towards them from Meereen's harbour. As it approached, Edwyn could see that it was crewed by an assortment of men, some dressed in ramshackle armour and others in black leather with round shields and spears.

"Remember", Lord Tarly said, "this 'Dragon Queen' is a pretender to your father's throne. You must never show weakness, never let her put you on the defensive. Be strong, and show no mercy."

Edwyn nodded. "Margaery says I need to be more assertive."

"She's right. You are the head of a Great House, Lord of the most prosperous kingdom in Westeros. She is nothing but a woman playing at rule."

The other ship came alongside them, and the black-armoured soldiers raised their shields, leveling their spears. One of the men in ramshackle armour, most likely a Sellsword, said "What's your business here, Westerosi?"

Walking down onto the deck, Edwyn replied "I wish to have an audience with your queen. I need to speak with her."

"I'm sure you do" the other man said. "But I can't just let some foreigner enter the city. You might cause trouble."

"What's your name?"

"Tikyn, lieutenant of the Second Sons."

Edwyn gestured to the rest of the fleet, which was visible off in the distance. "There are over 2, 000 men on those ships. If I wanted to, I could give the order and attack your harbour. If anything should happen to me, then that's exactly what will happen. Luckily for you, I'm not interested in attacking. Let me and my guards enter the city, and we'll be on our way soon enough."

The Sellsword was silent for a few moments. Edwyn clenched his hand into a fist, hoping that his threat would be sufficient to get him an audience.

Eventually, he said "Very well. We'll escort you to the harbour. Just make sure not to cause any trouble."

With that, the _Stranglethorn_ was guided to a dock, and Edwyn disembarked along with Randyll Tarly and a group of ten guards. Tikyn led them through the streets of Meereen, and the young Blackfyre was amazed; the city was grand and looked ancient, more so than many of the cities in Westeros. The pyramids reached towards the sky, and the bricks that made the streets felt older than the Red Keep itself.

He also noticed the people of the city. Most of them appeared to be locals, and they all stopped and looked at the Westerosi strangers in their city. They frequently passed by groups of the black-armoured soldiers marching in perfect step with one another.

Apparently, the city was not quite so peaceful.

Eventually, they arrived at the Great Pyramid, and once they arrived at the throne room, Tikyn had them wait outside while he went inside. A pair of the black-armoured soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking their path.

"Unsullied" Randyll Tarly spat.

"What do you know of them?" Edwyn asked.

"Eunuch soldiers formerly sold in Astapor. They've been the Targaryen girl's personal army for years now. They may be purported to be the perfect soldiers, but they're not even men anymore."

Just then, Tikyn came back, gesturing for them to enter. The two Unsullied stepped aside, allowing Edwyn and his escort to walk into the throne room. It was an expansive chamber with a high ceiling, and sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the Unsullied standing guard and the large stone stairs that led up to the throne.

Sitting there was Daenerys Targaryen.

Her silver hair ran down her back, and she wore a bright white gown which complemented her silver hair. Edwyn admired how it clung to her figure, and he couldn't help but imagine a number of scenarios where he got to tear it from her body. She was flanked by an attractive woman with dark skin and curly hair on one side, and a woman with long, bronze hair with a thin rapier at her other side.

"Your Grace", Tikyn said, addressing Daenerys, "allow me to introduce Edwyn Blackfyre, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and Son of the Black Dragon."

Edwyn inclined his head.

"You stand before Daenerys Stormborn, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."

"Thank you. You may go."

Tikyn bowed, then departed from the throne room.

For a moment, there was silence. Eventually, the last Targaryen said "You're rather young to be Lord of Highgarden."

"You're rather young to be a queen" Edwyn countered.

She cocked her head to the side. "What are you doing here?"

"When my father took the Iron Throne, he condemned the Greyjoy family to death for their history of rebelling against the crown. He melted Pyke with his Dragons and killed Balon Greyjoy and his brothers. However, Balon's children managed to escape with a significant number of ships which they stole from the new rulers of the Iron Islands. My father entrusted me with hunting them down and ending the Greyjoy line permanently, as well as getting House Harlaw's stolen property back."

"And why do you think they would come here?"

"Well, considering how you want the Iron Throne for yourself, it seems only logical that they would want to ally with you against my father."

The last Targaryen frowned at him. "That throne is mine, by right."

"That throne belongs to my father. Now do you know the whereabouts of the Ironborn, or not?"

The other two women shared a glance, and Daenerys said "You ought to speak to me with more respect."

Edwyn glanced at Lord Tarly, and the older man nodded in encouragement. "And why is that? Because my father claimed what was rightfully his and unified all of Westeros in less than a year. He destroyed all his enemies and brought peace to the realm. Meanwhile, all you have done is conquer a few cities here in Slaver's Bay, and from what I hear, the others have already rebelled against you. So, why should we be impressed?"

She stood and slowly walked down a few steps. "I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The Great Houses will see that my claim is true."

The young Blackfyre turned to his companion. "Lord Tarly, do you recognize this woman as your queen?"

The older man shook his head. "No, my lord. All I see before me is a little girl playing at rule, not knowing to leave politics to her betters."

Just then, Edwyn heard footsteps from behind. He turned around and saw a trio of men entering the throne room. One of them was an Unsullied, but he had no helmet on, revealing his smooth skin and hard face. Another was shorter than his belt, and Edwyn recognized him as Tyrion Lannister, the last of his family name. The third man was of average height, and while he was old, he bore himself with the air of a consummate warrior, one who had seen and forgotten more than most men would ever learn.

"Ser Barristan" he greeted, inclining his head. "It's an honour. My father only ever speak of you in the highest regard."

The old knight stopped and stared at him. Eventually, he said "You must be Drakon's boy. You have the same eyes."

The little Lannister looked up at him. "So, you're the son of Drakon Blackfyre?"

"Edwyn Blackfyre, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach."

"What about Mace Tyrell?"

"Mace Tyrell is Hand of the King to my father, who—"

"Married you to Margaery" the dwarf finished. "Smart. And Loras? Wait, don't tell me; he named Loras to the Kingsguard. A clever move for a man who massacres an entire family for the actions of a select few of its members."

Edwyn snorted. "The Lannisters more than earned a death sentence. I was the one who took your uncle Kevan's head after my brother and I defeated him at Riverrun."

"Why are you here?" Ser Barristan asked.

"We're hunting Ironborn" Edwyn replied. "Yara and Theon Greyjoy are marked for death, and my father entrusted me to carry out the sentence." He turned to Daenerys and said "My fleet will remain in Slaver's Bay for three days. If you learn where the Greyjoys have skulked off to, please inform us. I wouldn't advise keeping the truth from me; if you do, then my father will know."

With that, Edwyn, Lord Tarly, and their escort departed from the throne room. After leaving the Great Pyramid, they made their way back to the harbour.

"You think they know where Yara and her brother are?"

"Perhaps" the older man said. "Still, it shouldn't be long before—"

Edwyn and his guards stopped and saw Lord Tarly looking up. Looking up as well, the young Blackfyre could see a great plume of smoke rising ahead. Suddenly feeling a sense of panic, they broke into a run as they encountered scores of people fleeing what must have been a great fire as bells began to toll. A minute later, they came upon the harbour and found it aflame. Countless docked ships were consumed by roaring fires which belched dark smoke clouds high into the air.

"Seven hells!" Edwyn spat upon seeing his flagship among those ships that were burning.

Just then, a number of Unsullied came rushing out of a nearby street. They split into two groups and seamlessly encircled the young Blackfyre and his escort, leveling their spears at them. Edwyn growled, realizing that he had made a mistake coming to Meereen.

* * *

 **Dun dun duuuuuuuuun!**

 **Please review/favourite!**


	10. Call to Arms

_**Winterfell…**_

"Alright. Let's try this again."

"Okay" Edric said, sucking the last bits of food from his fingers. The grey morning light shone through the windows of the main hall as he looked down at the map of the North on the table. He swept his plate aside, shifting a little on the bench. Sansa sat beside him, and they were close enough that their legs sometimes touched. Edric struggled to contain the flutter in his chest and the bulging in his breeches at the physical contact with his wife.

 _Control yourself, you bloody idiot_ he thought to himself, tightly clenching his left hand into a fist.

Brienne stood nearby, towering over all the servants as she stood guard over them both. Having gotten over his initial wonder at her size, Edric found himself admiring the daughter of Lord Selwyn; she was brave and honourable, far more so than most knights in the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa pointed to a spot on the map, and he said "Castle Cerwyn. Rulers: House Cerwyn. Sigil: a black battle-axe on silver. Words: 'Honed and Ready'." That was the home and family of Prester Cerwyn, one of his father's most formidable and loyal knights and now one of his Kingsguard. It was Ser Prester who had spent years teaching Edric and his brother how to fight, and they had put his training to good use during the Second War of Conquest.

His wife nodded and pointed to another spot.

"Last Hearth. Rulers: House Umber. Sigil: a roaring giant in chains on red."

"No, that's wrong" Sansa said.

"Really?"

She shook her head. "There's no giant as part of their sigil. It's just four chains joined by a central link on red."

Edric furrowed his brow as he stared down at Last Hearth on the map. "Where the fuck did I get the giant from?"

"Maybe you read about it somewhere. Let's move on." She pointed to another spot.

"Ironrath. Rulers: House Forrester. Sigil: a white Ironwood tree on black, embellished with a black sword pointing… downwards. Words: 'Iron from Ice'." In fact, Edric had been on his way to liberate the keep when he was ambushed by Ramsay Bolton's forces. He pursed his lips as the memory flashed before him, remembering how Ramsay's hounds had tackled him to the ground and bit him, how he was forced to watch all his men be flayed alive and nailed to the trees…

"Edric?"

He shook his head and looked at Sansa, who stared at him with a slightly concerned expression.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine" he said, putting on a forced smile. She obviously did not believe him, but she let it slide as she pointed to another spot. "Greywater Watch. Rulers: House Reed. Sigil: a black… a black… oh, why can't I remember? It's some sort of lizard."

"A black lizard-lion on grey-green" Sansa calmly explained, appearing unperturbed at his frustration.

"Right, because we don't have any of those down south" Edric said, breathing a heavy sigh as he ran a hand through his hair.

"You can't just rule the people from your seat, sending decrees and expecting them to obey you. That's not the way things are done up here. Northern lords lead by example; they have to see you commanding respect through strength. You have to be someone they want to follow."

"Which I'm not." He took a moment to stare into her vivid blue eyes, feeling entranced by them. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably everything you're doing already. It remains to be seen if my help will mean anything to you in the future." She gave him a small smile, and he smiled back. Anytime that she was happy, when she could move on from the horrors of her past, was a victory for Edric. He only hoped that there would be more in the months to come.

Edric looked down at the map, wracking his brain for anything that might help earn the respect of his people. Suddenly, his face lit up as an idea came to him. "What if I throw a Tourney, maybe on your next Nameday? That way, all the Northern lords will be gathered in one place, and they could all see me and what I can do. Granted, that's not much at the moment, but if I just train harder…"

Sansa shook her head.

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"Tourneys are more for the south. They're not really done in the North."

"Why not?"

"I used to dream of attending Tourneys in the capital, seeing the noble and valiant knights in their gleaming armour competing for the favour of the beautiful noble ladies. I asked my father why we never had them here, and he told me that when he fought someone for real, he didn't want them to know what he could do."

"He sounded like a remarkable man. I wish I could have known him."

Sansa smiled as she stared at a wall, likely remembering her late father. "He really was" she said, her eyes starting to grow misty. "He loved me and wanted the best for me, and all I ever did was complain about our home and act like a little brat when I never got to go south."

Edric's heart broke a little as he saw his wife blaming herself.

"I was so stupid back then, just a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never appreciated her family until they were all gone."

Wanting to comfort her, he reached out and gently touched her face. She tensed at his touch, but he felt that tension slowly leave her as he wiped the tears from her cheek with his thumb. She looked back at him, and he offered her a comforting smile.

Sansa suddenly stood up and wiped off the last of the tears with the back of her hand. "I'll see you later, my lord" she said before walking away.

Edric sighed as he keenly felt her absence.

Brienne started to follow Sansa, but stopped and turned to look down at him. "For what it's worth, my lord, I believe you are an honourable man."

"That's kind of you to say."

She glanced at the door Sansa had walked through. "Give her time" she said, leaving the main hall.

A frown tugged at Edric's lips as he stared down at the map of the North. "That's what everyone keeps telling me."

* * *

 _ **Several days later…**_

Visenya looked out the window of the carriage as it slowly traversed the road. They had just finished visiting Gulltown, the largest city in the Vale, and were now on their way to Runestone, the ancestral castle of House Royce.

The royal tour was an excellent decision for her brother to make. Like Aegon the Conqueror before him, it allowed him to establish himself to the people of Westeros. They needed to see their new king, and the sight of Rhaegon and Maelion would be more than enough to eliminate the potential desire to rebel against Drakon. As if the blasted castles of Pyke, Clegane's Keep, and the Dreadfort were not enough.

She glanced at her brother and saw him sleeping where he sat. Visenya smiled and placed a hand on his knee.

A cooing noise drew her attention, and she looked at Jayne, who sat across from her, with Rhaenyra in her arms. Drakon's eldest child hummed a song as she gently stroked the infant's cheek. "You're very good with her" Visenya said, partially amazed at how easily her step-daughter could get her own daughter to sleep.

Jayne smiled. "Thank you. I had lots of practice with my brothers after they were born."

"You should have no problem when your child comes into the world." Jayne's smile seemed to lessen, and Visenya reached out to touch her knee. "I know we haven't had much time to get to know one another, but I would very much like to. After all, you are family to me. Just because I am queen shouldn't mean that we can't be close."

This time, the smile was more forced. "I would like that, as well."

Just then, they could hear voices coming from outside. The carriage came to a stop, and Visenya could hear Ser Prester call out "What's your business here?" She opened the door of the carriage a moment later, and the knight, mounted on his white horse, said "It's a messenger, Your Grace, from Gulltown. He says that a raven arrived from King's Landing."

"Bring it here" she said. The Kingsguard nodded, walking his horse over to the other man and retrieving the letter. Once he handed it to her, she closed the door. Shaking Drakon's knee, she said "My king, wake up." He opened his eyes, looking at her questioningly. "A raven, from King's Landing."

He took the letter and, seeing the Hand of the King symbol in green wax, broke the seal. "It's from Mace Tyrell. Rona says her birds have informed her…" His brow furrowed as his expression turned both shocked and furious.

"Father?" Jayne asked, leaning forward.

"It's Edwyn" he said, glancing at Visenya and his daughter. "Daenerys Targaryen has taken him and Randyll Tarly prisoner." Both women looked at him with shocked expressions, and he pursed his lips as he stepped out of the carriage. "Take my family back to the Eyrie" he told the driver. Turning to the Kingsguard, he said "Ser Harras, Ser Benedict, and Ser Eustace, you will escort my wife and our children back to King's Landing. Ser Loras, Ser Prester, and Ser Balon, you will accompany them to the capital, and then you will ride to Storm's End."

"Father, please" Jayne said. "Let me come with you. He's my brother."

"Out of the question" Drakon said. "You will go back to the Eyrie and stay with your husband, where you will be safe." He then took out his Dragon Horn and gave a single bellow. A pair of roars from high above sounded in response. "I'll be needing Rhaegon and Maelion with me, so your safety is paramount."

"My love, do you need both of them?" Visenya asked. "We cannot risk losing either of them."

Just then, they were all buffeted by powerful gusts of wind as the two Dragons came to land nearby. All of the horses whinnied in fright, and their riders struggled to rein them in as the silver and bronze-scaled creatures surveyed the caravan.

"Daenerys has three Dragons" her brother told her. "They may be untrained, but they represent a threat I can't ignore." He walked over to the carriage and kissed her lovingly on the lips. "I will come back. But until that happens, I am naming you as Queen Regent. Blood and Fire."

"Blood and Fire" she echoed, evoking their house's motto.

"Goodbye, Jayne" he said to his daughter. "I will bring your brother home, I promise."

"I love you, father."

"And I love you." Drakon said with a smile. He then turned around and started walking over to Rhaegon. "I'll send word to Samwell in Storm's End. Once we've assembled an army, I'm going to bring it to Daenerys' doorstep and rescue my son."

Rhaegon laid himself down on the ground, and Drakon climbed his wing and mounted the saddle strapped on his back. Once in place, he gave two quick blows on the Dragon Horn, and the magnificent siblings raised their massive heads high and gave mighty roars before they launched themselves into the air.

* * *

 **And here we have the call to arms! This should be interesting, eh?**

 **I can honestly say that Sansa is proving to be the most challenging character to work with in this story. With everyone else, I've got their core characters locked down, but Sansa is different. We've seen her go through absolute hell and come out the other side stronger and more capable, if a little cold-hearted in a ruthlessly pragmatic sense. In this story, I rescued her before she went through all that garbage in Season 5, so she's not as warlike or cold as we see in Seasons 6 and 7. Right now, I have her as still being strong and capable, but in the warm and loving environment Edric is trying to create for her, she has the chance to come to terms with her past traumas and move on, especially without fucking Littlefinger whispering in her ear and lusting after her like in the show.**

 **Who here can't wait for him to die slowly and painfully?**

 **mrean22: The fire is the one we see on the show, where Daenerys' ships are burned while docked; I moved it forward for the purposes of this story. The only one of Edwyn's ships that got burned was his flagship, stranding him and Lord Tarly in Meereen and being caught at the 'scene of the crime'. It's an extremely unfortunate coincidence all around, because a lot of people are likely going to die over this… misunderstanding.**


	11. Strength From Weakness

_**The Wall…**_

Rolfe wiped the frost from his beard as he trudged through the snow. One of the worst things about the cold was how everything stuck together: swords in sheaths, ration pouches, eyelids, and damn near everything else.

Hearing a light growl, he looked to his left. Gjalda walked beside him, an arm around her daughter, while her Shadowcat walked between them. The Chieftess of the Shadow Claws looked over at him and smiled, and he smiled back. The massacre at Hardhome was still fresh in everyone's memory, and the fact that the 5, 000 Wildlings they had saved was barely a fraction of the original army weighed heavily on the Ranger.

Soon enough, they came to the Wall.

They all stopped, and Rolfe looked up at the top, where his well-trained sight could see several brothers. Alliser Thorne was likely up there, staring down at them. The former knight always acted like he had a stick so far up his arse that he breathed splinters, and keeping them all out in the freezing cold would not surprise Rolfe.

Still, both men had spent decades fighting Wildlings, and allowing an army of them through the Wall a scant year after Mance Rayder's attack was unprecedented in the history of the Night's Watch.

But then again, so was the idea that Dragons would come back into the world, let alone fly over the damn Wall to get at an army of men from the Stormlands.

Rolfe glanced at the ground in front of the Wall, where Stannis Baratheon's army had camped after defeating Mance Rayder. Drakon Blackfyre and his Dragons had flown over the Wall itself, burning hundreds with their fire until the rest capitulated. The ground was still black, and it was hot enough to melt any snow that touched it.

Eventually, the door leading to the tunnel creaked open.

Once back in Castle Black, Rolfe watched the Wildlings slowly pour in through the castle and out the other side. Gjalda and her people walked by, and the Chieftess glanced at him before they moved on.

The veteran Ranger glanced at his brothers. They all stared at the passing Wildlings, most of them with hatred and contempt. After being enemies for thousands of years, it was no surprise that there were some very strong feelings on both sides. As Rolfe stood there, someone came to stand beside him. He turned and saw Ser Davos Seaworth, former servant of the dead king, Stannis Baratheon, who called Castle Black home alongside the black brothers.

It certainly was the place for misfits, outcasts, and traitors.

"A lot of angry faces" he noted.

"Aye" Rolfe agreed.

After a moment of silence, Davos said "I'm… sorry about your son. I know what losing a son is like"

The Ranger gritted his teeth together. "You had the chance to see your son die. You knew when it happened. My son died twenty years ago, and the piece of shit who murdered him stole his name and is now Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The gods thought it would be fun for me to be in the dark for so long."

The two men proceeded to watch the Wildlings in silence.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Edric sat down on a stool in the lord's quarters, resting his hands on his knees. Maester Pyne began to unwrap the black strip of cloth covering his left eye, as it had been a week since the old man had checked it last.

"And how did the hunt go this morning, my lord?"

Edric snorted as the cloth came off. "It didn't. I had the stag in my sights, but I missed my fucking spear thrust. It ran off into the woods."

"Perhaps next time" the Maester said, examining his eye.

"I don't think there will be a next time" the young Blackfyre said, his tone bitter. "I can't hunt, I can't swing my sword properly… I can't even mount a damn horse without constantly looking to the left. I'm Warden of the North and I have a Valyrian Steel sword, everything I could have ever wanted, but everything's tainted by this fucking eye of mine! I'm supposed to be the liege lord of all the Northern houses, but no one here respects me. To them, I'm just some one-eyed boy who's here because his father said so."

Maester Pyne was silent as he examined Edric's eye. Eventually, when he finished and began to re-wrap the cloth, he asked "Are you familiar with the words of House Forrester?"

Edric remembered his lessons with Sansa. "Iron from Ice."

"Iron from Ice" he echoed. "Strength from weakness. The North may be a harsh place to live, but its people are among the hardiest in Westeros. After all, a sword must be tempered with fire to find its shape, just as the cold tempers the Northmen. You might find that this is the perfect place to become strong again."

"I suppose" Edric said. Once the black cloth was back in place, he stood. "Now, I'm off to eat breakfast that I didn't kill." He proceeded to walk out the door and make his way through Winterfell. Though the sky was eternally grey and dour, he could tell that the sun was rising. He had gone on the deer hunt well before sunrise, so as to challenge his diminished eyesight to work in the dark.

Like everything else related to sight, though, it had ended in failure.

He soon entered the main hall, which was mostly empty at the moment. Sansa sat at the head table, in front of the hearth, eating breakfast. Edric sat across from her, and a servant girl approached. "Would you like something to eat, my lord?"

"Yes" he replied. As she started walking away, he added "And bring a few Lemon Cakes for Lady Sansa."

The girl left, and Sansa tried to suppress a smirk as she said "You really shouldn't be feeding my sweet tooth."

"And yet, I find myself incapable of denying you your greatest pleasure" he countered, smirking a little. A few minutes later, the servant girl brought him a plate of food while another servant brought his wife a tray of her favourite treats. She smiled conspiratorially as she ate one of them.

"I heard you went for a hunt this morning."

"If you could even call it that" Edric said, swallowing a bite of bacon. "I suppose everyone in the castle's talking about it: the Warden of the North can't even kill a deer in the woods. Fucking useless. I hear them, whispering around the corner when they think I'm not around. 'Edric One-Eye' they call me. That's how I'll be remembered: a one-eyed freak."

"My brother Bran lost the use of his legs when he fell from that tower. After he woke up, he was miserable, hardly eating and wanting to die."

"I remember" Edric said.

"You remember? You weren't at Winterfell when that happened."

"My father—"

"Is very well-informed, yes" Sansa finished with a smirk. "My point is that he found a way to move on, to make the best of his situation."

"But nothing's the same" he told her. "I lost an eye, Sansa."

"Yes, you lost an eye. Can you still swing a sword?"

"Yes, but—"

"Can you still walk and ride a horse?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then what's changed? You can do everything you could before."

Edric pounded a fist on the table. "I can swing a sword, I can ride a horse, but I'm not… I'm not whole. There's a piece of me that's gone, and without it, I'm not sure if I can be the same man I was before."

For a few minutes, they both ate in silence, the only noise in the main hall coming from the crackling fire as they ate their food.

"People are starting to talk, you know" Sansa said, eating another Lemon Cake.

"About what?"

His wife paused for a moment, glancing from side to side, then leaned in and said quietly "About how we've been married for over months, and I'm not pregnant yet."

Edric froze.

"After all, you nearly broke Lord Glover's jaw when the Bedding ceremony was called."

He glanced at Sansa, then sighed and sat a little straighter. "My father's oldest friend is the best spymaster in Westeros. She knows everything about everyone. Over the years, she told us of a girl from the North who came to live in King's Landing. She was forced to watch her father lose his head, and she spent years being tortured and humiliated by a vicious little bastard for his own amusement. She was also forced to marry the Imp shortly before her mother and brother were slaughtered at a wedding."

Sansa stared down at the table, her eyes growing misty at the mention of what her captors did to her.

"Every time I heard about these things, I asked myself why anyone would treat her this way. What had she ever done to deserve this?" She looked up at him, and he stared into her eyes. "Your family did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. Growing up, my father told us that the Lannisters were evil, that they only ever cared for themselves and killed anyone who might be a threat to their power. He was right. I am proud to have helped wipe their stain from this world."

He took her hand in his, and she clutched it tightly.

"Like I told you back at Riverrun: I will never hurt you, and I will spend the rest of our lives treating you as you deserve. Unlike Baelish or the Lannisters or all those others, I'll never force myself on you. If you want to be with me, then you can do that on your terms. And if not, then all the Northern lords can go fuck themselves."

They sat there in silence, content with holding hands.

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**


	12. A Queen and A Knight

_**Meereen…**_

Edwyn leaned against the wall of his cell, staring out the square-shaped hole that served as a window. From what he could see, the sun was starting to set, which meant that it was almost nighttime. It had been almost a week since he and his guards had been arrested, so why had his fleet not attacked the city upon seeing the burning harbour? Something must have prevented them from coming, or, the more upsetting notion, the crews mutinied and left him and Lord Tarly to rot. Edwyn wondered just how long it would be before his father came in force to rescue him. After all, Rona knew everything about everyone, so he should have found out soon after the fact.

Or at least, Edwyn hoped he had.

His mind flashed back to the conquest of the North, in the final months of the Second War of Conquest. He and Lord Tarly had found 1, 000 of their men, along with Ser Ronald Storm of the Kingsguard, flayed and nailed to trees after his brother had been captured by the Boltons.

He shuddered at the horrible images in his memory. His father had wasted no time in going after Edric, riding Rhaegon straight to Winterfell. Edwyn only hoped that he would bring more than just himself, for Daenerys had Dragons of her own and a sizeable army.

As if on cue, he heard the clanging of keys as they were used to unlock his cell. The wooden door creaked open, revealing the Mother of Dragons in a blue dress.

Edwyn turned to face her, giving the Targaryen girl a mock bow. He had Targaryen blood through his father, but he did not want to think of just how distantly they were related. "Does this mean that I can expect to be released soon?"

"Not quite" she replied, stepping inside the cell.

Edwyn glanced at the Unsullied standing guard just outside. "I don't suppose you'll believe me when I say that I had nothing to do with the burning of your ships?"

"Don't you find it rather suspicious?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Mere hours after you, the son of the man who stole my throne, arrive with a fleet of ships, my harbour is suddenly burning."

"Coincidence."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well, believe what you like" Edwyn said, crossing his arms. "I had nothing to do with it, which means I'm innocent. My ship was consumed in the same fire, if you recall. Why would I burn your ships, and somehow be stupid enough to burn my own?"

"The winds could have carried the flames over."

"I don't recall it being particularly windy that day." For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Edwyn eventually said "I would advise that you let me go."

"Of course you would" she said, her tone condescending.

"This isn't some idle threat, Daenerys Targaryen" he said, taking a step towards her. The Unsullied began to draw their swords, but she held up a hand. "My father has most likely heard of this by now, which means that he's on his way right now."

"I look forward to meeting him."

"You don't understand. He's not coming to buy or negotiate my freedom. He will bring everything he can to get me back. He's not just bringing armies and steel, but Blood and Fire."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed a little as she noticed the reversal of the Targaryen motto.

"I've seen what he does to his enemies, 'Your Grace'. If you want to keep your city-sized kingdom, then you would do well to release me and Lord Tarly before he burns your city to the ground. The Black Dragon is not to be trifled with."

She stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave. "Neither am I."

The cell door was closed and locked.

* * *

 **The Eyrie...**

Jayne watched as her husband sparred with a knight from a minor house. He was in fine form, blocking and parrying every strike and savagely attacking in turn. She was reminded of how her brothers would spar with Ser Prester nearly every day since they could hold a sword. She could remember the two of them coming to eat supper covered in mud and sweat on multiple occasions.

Andar was what they would eventually become: strong, powerful, and dominating any battlefield. While they had been married for political reasons and did not love each other, Jayne was never bored by Andar's... physical prowess.

Staring at him as he brought his practice sword down, his muscles rippling in the muted, mid-day sun, caused a pleasing warmth to pulse through her body.

As Jayne shuddered, rubbing her legs together, Adrya approached from behind and asked "Are you too cold, m'lady?"

Jayne smirked, looking up at the falling snows. "That's fine. I'm alright."

In truth, she was still getting used to the cold. Having grown up in Ashford and spending many years in the Crownlands, she had become accustomed to warmer temperatures. Being high up in the mountains was considerably colder, especially with winter close at hand.

"May I join you, my lady?" someone asked as they sat down beside her.

Jayne turned and saw that the voice's owner was a thin man, with shoulder-length brown hair and a handsome face. Like all men of the Vale, he wore a white surcoat over steel armour, which was adorned with three black ravens, each holding a red heart.

The man bore an arrogant smirk, and he was sitting too close for Jayne's comfort. She forced herself not to fidget and said "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name. Lord...?"

"Oh, I'm not a lord" the man said. "Not yet. Ser Lyn Corbray, Captain of the Guard."

"Of course. Forgive me. I'm still growing accustomed to life in the Eyrie. I have yet to become familiar with many of the Vale's ancient and noble Houses."

She knew exactly who he was. The daughter of the Black Dragon had taken her lessons to heart, memorizing nearly all of the Houses of the Vale. Jayne had recognized the sigil of House Corbray, and there was only one member of that House with a Valyrian Steel sword. As a general rule, she adopted a naïve, partially submissive persona around men as arrogant and vain as Lyn Corbray. They often overplayed their hand when they believed they had the superior position, which would come in handy should the need arise for Jayne to put him in his place.

The Eyrie's Captain of the Guard smirked, placing a hand on her knee. "It's quite alright, my lady. Not all of us can be expected to be perfect." As Jayne suppressed her revulsion at his casual disrespect, he looked over at Andar. "Your husband is in fine form this morning."

"Yes, he is" she agreed. "Certainly one of the greatest warriors in the Vale, by all accounts."

"Some accounts are truer than others. After all, we are only flesh and blood. All men must die sometime." He then stood and bowed to her. "My lady."

As he walked away, she allowed herself to sneer in disgust.

Later, once the sun set, Jayne removed her clothes as Adrya poured her a bath. The handmaiden looked up at her as she bared her naked body, staring as she poured the last of the water. The young woman looked down at herself and asked "Is there anything wrong?"

Adrya shook her head. "There's nothing wrong with you, m'lady."

Jayne proceeded to step into the tub, relishing the feeling of the water on her skin. She laid her arms on the side and leaned her head back. Adrya then began to wash her hair, gently rubbing her hands through the dark brown locks. "Such beautiful hair" she whispered.

Groaning in appreciation, Jayne replied "Thank you. My mother used to say the same thing."

"I'm sure she's proud of you, m'lady."

"She was. Before she died."

The handmaiden froze. "I'm—I'm so sorry, m'lady. I meant no offense."

Jayne smiled, reaching back and placing a hand on hers. "It's alright. She would not want me to sulk like a child. She was a very strong woman, and taught me that any woman could shake the very mountains if they are determined. Men might rule the world, but great men often have a great woman by their side, whispering in their ear."

"She sounded very wise" Adrya said, proceeding to rub scented oils into her hair.

Jayne groaned, appreciating how good the other woman's hands felt as they rubbed her scalp. "She was. I always admired her; she and my father married for love, long before they were nobility. Growing up, I dreamed of doing the same, finding the perfect boy to steal my heart away and marry me like the girls in the tales."

Adrya stopped what she was doing for a moment, then resumed.

"But, it was not meant to be" the young woman said in a disappointed tone. "From the moment my father began to rise in station, I knew that I would have to marry someone for political reasons one day. It never became easier, and it certainly didn't prepare me for when it actually happened."

With her hair finished, Jayne ran a hand over her pregnant belly, which was now slick with water. She had an entire future ahead of her that she had to adjust to, and it was not something that grew easier as the days past.

A few moments later, Adrya grabbed a sponge. Jayne sat up, and her handmaiden began to wash her with soap. "I'm sure that you and Lord Andar will grow to have a happy marriage."

"Perhaps."

"You sound sad, m'lady."

Jayne smiled at her. "It's just… Andar is a fine husband, better than most, but I have always craved a deeper connection. I always imagined myself and my future husband falling deeply in love for the rest of our lives, but right now I don't see that happening."

"If there is ever anything I can do to make you happy, m'lady, then please let me know."

"Thank you for listening. It means a great deal to me."

She turned to look at Adrya. Her handmaiden stared into her eyes, smiling, and at that moment, she leaned forward and gently kissed her. Jayne opened her eyes with shock and pulled away. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Adrya looked completely ashamed of herself, then said "Please forgive me, m'lady. I don't know why I did that." She then stood and quickly walked out the door.

Jayne stared at the door for several moments, unsure of how exactly she should be feeling. The young woman gently ran two fingers over her lips, and the one thing she knew was that she had not minded the unexpected physical contact.

Life in the Eyrie was certainly proving to be interesting.

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Hail King Cerion: In the Game of Thrones, there are no truly innocent characters… except for Hodor. *Sniffle* Hodor.**

 **guest: I'm still deciding on how I ultimately want this story to end, so it's not impossible. ;)**


	13. Dragonspawn

_**Meereen…**_

Edwyn sat against a wall of his cell, staring into nothingness. He had lost count of just how long he had been imprisoned; perhaps days, probably weeks. His normally clean-shaven features had given way to a rough, scratchy beard and a mop of greasy hair. It would only be a matter of time until his father came to rescue him. He would never leave Edwyn to rot on the far side of the world. He had rescued Edric from the Boltons, and he would rescue him from Daenerys.

But what if he did not?

Edwyn quickly shook the thought away. Of course his father would come, of that there was no doubt. Then again, what if he had no idea of what had transpired here in Meereen? Rona had a vast spy network at her disposal, but even she could not be in every room all over the world. His father could be in King's Landing right now, with no idea that his son had been captured by the only surviving Targaryen.

Perhaps he was expendable, now that Margaery was pregnant. Edwyn might not have mattered as much as his brother. After all, despite the fact that he and his twin were made Lords Paramount in the wake of the Second War of Conquest, Edric had been the one to receive a Valyrian Steel sword.

Did his father favour Edric more?

Growling in anger, Edwyn gripped the sides of his head and tightly clenched his face, rocking back and forth as he tried to shake the doubts and questions out of his mind.

Suddenly, the door to his cell was opened, and torchlight streamed in. Edwyn winced reflexively, his eyes having grown accustomed to almost total darkness. An Unsullied entered and made him stand before guiding him out into the corridor. The young Blackfyre covered his eyes with his manacled hands, his legs stiff and sore from his extended incarceration. From what little he could tell, he was being led up through the pyramid, towards the peak.

"Is it time for my execution already?" he asked sardonically.

The eunuch did not reply.

Eventually, they came to a well-furbished chamber that must have been near the top, meaning that whomever it belonged to must have been important to the Dragon Queen. A moment later, Edwyn saw Tyrion Lannister sitting by a table stocked with food and drink, an empty chair in front of him.

"Please, sit" the dwarf greeted pleasantly, gesturing to the empty chair.

Edwyn remained standing as the Unsullied left the room, keeping a wary gaze on the last living Lannister.

"Afraid I'm going to have you killed at supper?"

"Well, your name is 'Lannister', after all" Edwyn pointed out.

The dwarf nodded. "Fair point. Go ahead and stand there if you wish. I'll get started." He drank from his goblet, then reached over and plucked several grapes from a dish. As he deposited them in his mouth, Edwyn's stomach started growling in protest, and the young Blackfyre suddenly realized just how hungry he was. Sighing in defeat, he walked over and sat down. "Now, there's a good lad" Tyrion Lannister said with a smile.

Not bothering to reply, he tore into the food, grabbing a chicken and devouring it with abandon. Once there was only bone, he grabbed an apple and bit several chunks from it. He tried a purple fruit he did not recognize, but upon finding that it was incredibly sour, he spat out the mouthful and moved onto other things.

Feeling a lump developing in his throat from all the food, Edwyn poured himself a goblet of wine and downed it in one gulp. He then slowed down and looked at Daenerys' latest advisor, who had remained silent. "So", he started to say in between bites, "what do you want?"

"A few things" the dwarf replied, taking a sip of wine. "Right now, though, I would settle for having a pleasant conversation."

Edwyn paused as he held a small cake in his hand. He knew full well that Tyrion Lannister was one of the cleverest men who lived; Rona had related to his father enough tales of the man's exploits and accomplishments for him to know as much. If he wanted to talk, that meant that he wanted something from him. Putting the cake back on the plate, he said "I'm not going to betray my father."

"That's a noble sentiment" the dwarf said. "I noticed the sigil on your ship's sails, before it burnt: a black Dragon's head breathing thorny vines on a green field. Very aggressive, quite the departure from the Tyrell rose."

"My sigil conveys the strength of my House" Edwyn replied. "The Dragons have come to rule over the Seven Kingdoms, and we took them from the hands of your wretched family. We do not tolerate our enemies."

"You don't need so much bluster" the last Lannister said in a lecturing tone that set Edwyn on edge. "Randyll Tarly isn't here. You can speak as you like." As Edwyn chewed on a piece of bread, he added "It's been almost a month since your… capture, and I can't help but notice that your father hasn't come."

"It takes time to gather an army" Edwyn immediately replied.

"Of course. But your father has Dragons. He could fly here in less than half the time it would take to sail across the ocean."

The young Blackfyre leaned back in his chair. "He knows that Daenerys has an army and Dragons of her own. Wild and untrained, but she does have three of them all the same. My father isn't stupid; he's the smartest man I know."

The little Lannister took another sip of wine. "Perhaps. But from where I sit, your father is the sort of man who burns people alive in order to get what he wants. You don't have to be smart for that."

"Those 'people' were oathbreakers, usurpers, and cravens of the worst sort." Edwyn leaned forward, staring hard into the dwarf's eyes and remembering Lord Tarly's words as he said "I was there when my father took the Iron Throne from your bastard nephew. I saw your brother and sister tried and sentenced. My father burned them alive with Wildfire. He made your brother watch as his sister, his… lover, died screaming. He joined her shortly afterwards."

For a moment, the Lannister man's expression broke, and Edwyn could see the pain and sorrow etched on his features. He had hoped to unsettle the little man enough to gain the upper hand, but the moment passed, and the dwarf took a deep breath before saying "You do have value as a hostage, but you would be even more valuable as an ally. Daenerys will sit on the Iron Throne, and having the Warden of the South on her side would be a great boon. She would reward you."

"I'm no oathbreaker" Edwyn stated. "I'm not like your brother. I swore to serve my king, but more importantly than that, I am loyal to my father. He rewards loyalty. I got the Reach by marrying Margaery, and my brother got the North by marrying Sansa. If you think—"

"Sansa?" Tyrion Lannister interrupted, looking surprised.

"How does it feel, knowing that your prisoner is finally free of your family?"

Looking annoyed, the dwarf replied "I never hurt Sansa. I always treated her with respect, especially after my father forced us to marry."

"Oh, I'm sure" Edwyn said sarcastically. "It's not like she's a beautiful girl who was forced to marry the second greatest whoremonger in the Seven Kingdoms. Growing up, my father told us stories about your family. He told us that you were the sort who would butcher entire families just to acquire more power. And guess what? You were. When we were older, he told us about the day that King's Landing fell, when the Targaryens were ousted. My father has had to make hard choices, but he never had savages like Gregor Clegane murder children and rape their mother with their blood on his hands."

Edwyn then stood, looking down at Tyrion Lannister as he heard footsteps coming from behind him.

"Like I told you when we first met: your family more than earned a death sentence. They deserved to be exterminated." One of the Unsullied placed a hand on his shoulder and roughly led him out of the room.

"I could say the same about yours" the dwarf called as Edwyn was brought back to his cell.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

Jayne stood next to her husband as the next petitioner entered. The High Hall was filled with guards and the nobility of the Vale. Her father-in-law sat on the great Weirwood throne, while she and Andar stood dutifully next to him. The young woman glanced at those in attendance, recognizing several faces. In the months since her marriage and subsequent relocation to the Eyrie, she had endeavoured to ensure the loyalty of the lords of the Vale for the sake of her new family, and on the whole, she had succeeded.

Her gaze fell on Ser Lyn Corbray, who stood at the foot of the stairs on the right. Jayne suppressed a sneer at the sight of the man. Their initial meeting, along with stories she had heard, had quickly coloured her perception of the Captain of the Guard.

Setting aside her distaste, she focused on the petitioner who came through the doors. The man was young, barely twenty years old, and the look on his face sent chills down Jayne's spine.

"What is your name?" Lord Royce asked him.

"Willem, m'lord. From Goldleaf." If Jayne remembered correctly from her lessons with Maester Colemon, Goldleaf was a small village a few days' ride south of the Eyrie.

"And what can I do for you?"

Willem wrung his hands together as he replied "It's the Hill Tribes, m'lord. They've always been a problem, as I'm sure your lordship already knows, but they're getting bolder every day. Just last week, a farmer and his family were killed, their farm burned to the ground and their livestock taken. And the other day, several of them snuck into town and set fire to people's homes."

"Sounds like the work of the Burned Men" Andar said, and several others nodded in agreement.

Jayne leaned close to him and whispered "Are they a particularly dangerous tribe?"

"Yes. They're greatly feared by the rest."

That was worrisome, the young woman thought to herself.

"My father sent me here to beg your lordship for aid" Willem continued. "We're just farmers and craftsmen, m'lord. We can't hope to fend them off on our own."

Her father-in-law nodded. "Yes. They've certainly become much more of a nuisance ever since Tyrion Lannister gave them steel weapons and armour. They will be dealt with, my friend, I promise you. Ser Lyn Corbray, you are to gather as many men as needed and remind these savages that they should be the ones living in fear."

The knight turned and knelt, but before he could respond, Andar took a step forward and said "Father, let me have this honour. We have been entrusted to rule over the Vale, and it should be a Royce who beats the tribesmen into the mud. Let me represent our family in this."

Jayne looked at Lord Royce, interested in how he would respond.

The older man smiled. "Very well, my son. Take as many men as you need. Carry out the King's Justice."

Willem smiled as the High Hall erupted into applause. With that, Andar made his way to the stables once his armour was equipped. As he and his escort readied their horses, Jayne approached her husband. "I wish you good fortune, husband. May your enemies fall to your blade."

He smirked and turned to face her, giving her a firm kiss on the lips. "I won't be gone long. The Hill Tribes always scurry back to their caves once they face the Knights of the Vale."

Jayne cupped his cheek and stared into his eyes. "Never show mercy to your enemies. Show them why you should be feared, and if they threaten what's yours, destroy them utterly." Andar placed a hand on her growing belly, and she added "Come back to us."

"I will" he said. With another kiss, he told the others "Mount up!" Once they were atop their mounts, they rode out of the Eyrie's main gates, leaving Jayne behind in the stables.

In an effort to keep herself occupied, she walked over to Ebony's stall. The midnight-black horse nuzzled against her as she entered, and the young woman smiled. She grabbed a brush and started running it over Ebony's body, idly humming a song as she did so. Spending time with her oldest friend was one of the few things that could make Jayne forget about all her troubles and calm her mind.

"Magnificent creatures, aren't they?"

Jayne flinched in surprise, and turned to see Lyn Corbray standing a few feet away. "Ser Lyn, you startled me."

"I tend to have that effect" he said with his characteristic smirk. "So, your lord husband rides off to war."

Remembering to portray herself as naïve before this man, the young woman said "From what I've been told, it's not really going to be a war… is it?"

The knight snorted. "Not really. For all their savagery, the Hill Tribes have no finesse, no real talent with weapons. Their ways are brutish and they fight more like animals than warriors. In truth, I'm glad your husband stepped forward to take care of them; none of the tribesmen would have offered a proper challenge, and I have no interest in proving just how better I am than savages."

"So, what sort of challenges do you seek?" she asked innocently.

The Captain of the Guard casually stepped over to her, and he towered over her as he stood closer than she would have liked. "Life offers all sorts of challenges, not just in combat. The death of a loved one, even… a husband, can be an opportunity to those with enough ambition." He took her hand and, maintaining eye contact, kissed it. "My lady" he said before walking away.

Jayne gripped the brush so tight that she thought it might break. The man was arrogant and callous, far more than any other man she knew. The encounter left her feeling incredibly tense, and once she finished brushing Ebony, she went to seek some relaxation.

Later, in her and Andar's chambers, she watched as Adrya entered. The handmaiden curtsied and asked "You summoned me, m'lady?"

"Yes. I feel like you've been nervous around me since that kiss, and I wanted to settle things between us."

Adrya's expression turned apologetic, and she said "I am so, so sorry, m'lady. I don't know why I did that, I was just—"

Before she could finish, Jayne slipped off her dress, leaving herself naked before the other woman. The handmaiden's mouth fell open in surprise, and her eyes passed over the young woman's body appreciatively. Jayne started walking towards the bed and held out her hand. "Will you not join me?"

Adrya looked conflicted, but it quickly passed. She smiled and joined her lady.

Jayne slept soundly that night.

* * *

 **Safe to say that Drakon didn't raise any meek children, eh?**

 **I hope the Tyrion conversation doesn't seem too far-fetched. We all know that he is the master player who can win just about every conversation, but so does Edwyn. He knows Tyrion's reputation, and he fights back by bludgeoning him over the head with talk about Jaime and Cersei and Sansa. Just like his brother, Edwyn has some insecurities, especially after being locked in a dark cell for weeks while being left to his own thoughts, but he's been spending time with people like Margaery and Randyll Tarly who have been telling him to be more assertive and unflinching in the face of his enemies.**

 **Also, Drakon has had to become more vicious over the course of his life, having learned bitter lessons from men like Tywin Lannister. Inevitably, some of this passed onto his children, and Edwyn's efforts to bash on Tyrion resemble some of Tywin's conversations with his son.**

 **As for Jayne, even though I'm setting her up to be savvy like Margaery, she is the daughter of the Black Dragon. She was raised to be smart as well as strong, and what she said to Andar about never showing mercy to your enemies is kind of her mission statement. As clever as Margaery was, and as much as the people (including us viewers) loved her, we know that she only got so far by only using love and kind words.**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Hail King Cerion: Edric is in the North, Edwyn is in Meereen. Hope that clarifies!**


	14. The Father's Judgement

_**King's Landing…**_

Visenya looked out at the streets of King's Landing as she was carried along in her litter. People bowed as she passed by, and flocks of pigeons flew overhead as the sun shone down on the capital. By all appearances, it was a perfect day, and yet the Queen of Westeros felt nothing but worry inside.

Even now, Drakon was halfway around the world, ready to go to war against Daenerys Targaryen. Visenya touched a hand to her belly, fearing that her brother might never return. Having not bled in over a month, she knew that she was with child, just as her dreams had promised her. She only wished that her brother would be there for her when the child came. Drakon was going to rescue his son, and she fully understood that.

But that also meant that he had had to leave her.

The silver-haired woman took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Her brother was the greatest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, maybe even the entire world. To her, he was the greatest king who ever lived, and the Black Dragon would never leave his Queen alone in the world. The litter eventually came to a stop, and one of the Goldcloaks opened it for her. Ser Hugo, one of Drakon's most loyal knights and Lord Commander of the City Watch, held out a hand for her.

"Thank you, Ser Hugo" she said with a smile as she took the hand and stepped onto the street.

"Of course, Your Grace" he said. "I've often found prayer to be a source of comfort ever since my wife's death. I'm sure it will ease your fears."

They both looked up at the Great Sept of Baelor. The monolithic structure towered above them as one of the city's greatest landmarks. It was a constant reminder of how important the Faith of the Seven was in Westeros. Visenya knew that Drakon was not particularly religious, but he understood that it was a powerful political tool that could both unify and destroy. Personally, she could have cared less about the faith; even though Westeros was her home now, there were many things about it that were strange to her. But, she had to maintain appearances.

And perhaps a prayer could save her brother's life.

She began to ascend the steps, followed by Ser Hugo and Ser Harras Harlaw. The Ironman was one of the greater warriors of the Kingsguard, and he certainly looked imposing with his black armour and Valyrian Steel sword by his side.

"Your Grace" a minor nobleman said, bowing to Visenya as she walked past him.

"My Queen" a woman and her child said.

"Hail, the Blackfyre Queen!" someone cried from nearby.

"The Dragons love their own!"

"Do you respect tradition, Your Grace?"

Visenya paused and glanced back at the people dotting the street leading up to the Sept, furrowing her brow. Pursing her lips, she faced the doors as Ser Harras opened them, walking past the statue of Baelor the Blessed. She stepped inside and was greeted by the seven massive statues arranged in a circle around the main chamber. Candles were lit at the base of each, with the exception of the Stranger, and several nobles were present, praying to one of the aspects.

Visenya stepped down into the main chamber, the very place where the High Sparrow had crowned her and her brother the new King and Queen of Westeros. As the nobles bowed and parted before her, she saw the man kneeling at the base of a nearby statue.

She patiently waited for several moments, and eventually the old man took notice. "Ah, Your Grace" he said, slowly standing. He turned to face her, wearing nothing but his usual tunic of roughspun wool. A quick glance revealed that, like always, he walked barefoot, having 'given his shoes to someone who needed them'.

"Your Holiness" she said, inclining her head.

"Have you come to pray to the gods?"

"For my husband's safe return" she replied. Glancing at the statues, she spoke a little more quietly. "Though I must confess that I am not as familiar with the faith as I would like to be."

The High Septon smiled. "We are all but children before the gods. Any may learn who wish to." He looked up at the seven statues. "There is but one God, Your Grace, with seven aspects that can be prayed to." Gesturing to the statue which he had just been praying to, he said "The Crone represents wisdom and foresight. None of us can foretell the future; only she knows the fate of all men. The Warrior represents courage and strength. Men like your husband channel him on the battlefield. The Maiden represents purity, innocence, and love. In the wake of the recent horrors of war, we are profoundly lacking such things. The Smith represents creation and craftsmanship. He who would construct the greatest armour or lowliest home pray to him. The Stranger represents death and the unknown of what lies beyond. Men fear what they do not understand, but in the end, we all return to the gods. The Father represents justice. He passes judgement over all, and weighs the balance of every sin and misdeed. The Mother represents mercy and peace. Any who would seek forgiveness or absolution need only ask for it."

Visenya nodded, appraising each of the seven statues in turn. She could understand how most people would turn to religion for comfort, to gain answers for life's greatest mysteries and explanations for all its hardships. However, she did not need to seek some higher power; she was Blood of the Dragon, sister and wife to the Black Dragon. There was no higher power that controlled her destiny. She and her brother would dictate what was right and what was wrong.

"A rather extravagant gown" the High Septon noted. "I imagine it must have cost quite a lot of money."

Visenya caught the thinly veiled accusatory tone he was using. "It was a gift from my mother, before I left home. Silver always was my colour."

He smiled, though they both knew it was forced. One of the Sparrows brought him a book, which he then gave to her. The seven-pointed star was on the cover. "Should you wish for more guidance in the matters of the gods, then I would be happy to assist you. Remember, Your Grace: the gods can be merciful to those who beg their forgiveness. But they can also deliver swift punishment to those who sin against them."

"Well, should I commit a sin in the future, I shall keep that in mind, Holiness."

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Olene stared out at the horizon, watching as the sun slowly set as it bathed the sky in brilliant orange. A pleasant breeze blew in from outside, caressing her skin and lightly ruffling her hair. "You seem a bit distracted, Olene" the queen said, breaking her out of her reverie.

The Braavosi turned around and faced the Targaryen monarch. "Apologies, Your Grace. I was just… I am with child."

The other woman's mouth opened slightly with surprise. "That's wonderful! I'm sure Kovarro is thrilled."

"He spent most of the day drinking himself into a stupor with the other Bloodriders." They both laughed as Olene sat next to her queen at the council table. "I never expected something like this ever happening. Before I came into your service, I did not plan on having a family."

The queen furrowed her brow. "Do you not have relatives in Braavos?"

Olene shook her head. "My parents died of a sickness when I was little. I grew up on the streets, begging and stealing to survive. The closest thing I ever had to family was my Dancing Master, Syrio Forel."

"You've spoken of him before."

The Braavosi woman smiled. "When I was eight years old, I had a pet cat. Jonys. A scrawny little thing, just as likely to bite your finger as it was to purr. At first, I wanted to eat it, because I was always starving, but for some reason I can't explain, I kept it. Named him Jonys, after my father. Cats are fast, and after a while, I found that he could snatch fruit from stalls or coin from people's purses quicker than I ever could."

The queen cocked her head a little to the side. "What happened to him?"

"One day, he got caught stealing an apple from a group of boys. They caught him, and snapped his neck. I was so angry that I attacked them, which wasn't the best idea, because they were at least ten years older and three times as big as me. I was small and quick, but that didn't matter. They had me on the ground, and just as one of them started hitting me, someone appeared from nowhere and knocked all three of them out. I looked up and saw that it was Syrio Forel, the First Sword to the Sealord himself. I couldn't believe it. He looked down at me and said 'You are quick, boy, but you can be much quicker'. I told him that I was a girl, and he said 'Boy, girl… do you want to be faster than all the others? To learn the Water Dance?' I took his hand, and he gave me a home and taught me everything I know."

Suddenly, the bells started ringing, and Olene and the queen stood up. They looked outside, and saw a dark mass moving in the distance, beyond the city gates. The Braavosi guessed that it was an army.

"The Masters" the queen said. Just then, a monstrous roar sounded from high above. "Drogon!"

They both walked out onto the balcony, looking up at the sky. They soon spotted a winged shape against the brilliant orange of the setting sun. The queen laughed and smiled with joy, but when the shape turned, it did not have the dull black colour of her largest Dragon. Instead, its scaled body was silver, with golden wings that gleamed with the fading sunlight. It was soon joined by a companion with bronze scales and the same golden wings.

They both circled above the city a few times, occasionally letting loose a roar that was sure to gain the attention of everyone in Meereen. The silver one then flew directly at the Great Pyramid, coming to land on the very top.

The Dragon looked every bit as large as Drogon, if not larger. It bared its long, sharp teeth as it growled down at both women. Olene looked to the creature's back, where a rider sat on a specialized saddle. He was big and muscular, wearing impressive black plate armour with clawed gauntlets and a three-headed black Dragon within a circle of crimson on his breastplate. He wore a black, winged war helm.

"Daenerys Stormborn, I am Drakon Blackfyre, King of the Andals and the First Men. Release my son, or I will burn your city to ash around you!"

* * *

 **DUN DUN DUUUN! Ladies and gents, Drakon Blackfyre is in the house!**

 **I loved writing that little misdirect. One second, you think Drogon is back to save his momma, then BAM! Turns out it's her relative's kids, and he raised them to be tough as opposed to Dany's mostly hands-off parenting technique.**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **krasni: Oh, absolutely! How could I not? I already know how Drakon would react, but I'm waiting until the show gets to the reveal to see how Dany will react.**

 **Hail King Cerion: Exactly!**

 **HeyStardust: Thank you so much!**


	15. Preparations

"Daenerys Stormborn, I am Drakon Blackfyre, King of the Andals and the First Men. Release my son, or I will burn your city to ash around you!"

Drakon stared down at the two women standing on the balcony. One was Olene, the Braavosi sword master he had sent to serve the last Targaryen. The other was Daenerys Stormborn, last surviving child of King Aerys. This was the first time the muscular man had ever laid eyes on her; she was a little taller than he had envisioned, and her eyes were hard-set. She wore a regal, white gown and a Dragon necklace as well as a few silver bracelets on her left wrist.

"No one has to die today" he said, gently running a gauntleted hand along Rhaegon's neck to calm him. "Give me my son, and I will leave you be."

Just as she was about to say something, several shouts came from within. A number of black-armoured Unsullied rushed onto the balcony, protectively huddling around Daenerys as they began throwing their spears. Rhaegon reared his head back as they flew past, his golden neck frills flaring, and then roared as one punctured the skin of his neck. Growling in anger, Drakon pulled on the reins. The Dragon launched itself from the tip of the pyramid, diving down towards the ground.

Rhaegon extended his golden wings, flapping in order to climb high into the air. Maelion came to fly beside him, and Drakon glanced back at the Great Pyramid.

He then pointed to a smaller pyramid and said " _Dracarys_!" Both Dragons came to hover above the structure, proceeding to bathe it in Dragonfire. The pyramid became instantly engulfed, and he said " _Kelitis_!" They ceased breathing fire, and as it burned like a brilliant stone bonfire against the evening dusk, Drakon directed his Dragons to fly over the city walls, where his army was gathering.

6, 000 men from the Crownlands, flying Blackfyre banners, were joined by 2, 000 men from the Stormlands. While Drakon could have easily drawn up a larger force, he did not want to leave the realm entirely undefended in his absence. Also, he had not wanted to waste any time in leaving to rescue Edwyn and Randyll Tarly.

Most of the army stood in the slightly bowl-shaped depression in front of Meereen's grand gates, just outside of archer range. The rest were situated along the cliffs that formed the edge of the bowl.

Rhaegon and Maelion came to land several dozen feet away from the cliffs, causing the ground to quake. As Drakon dismounted, he was greeted by Samwell Royce and the three Kingsguard who had accompanied him, as well as Ser Horas Redwyne, heir to the Arbor and the commander of the House Redwyne ships Edwyn had taken east. "I take it Daenerys Targaryen wasn't willing to negotiate" the new Lord of Storm's End said sardonically.

"No, she wasn't" Drakon replied.

Loras Tyrell removed his helm and held it in the crook of his elbow. "What now, Your Grace?"

Appraising the city before him, the muscular man said "Tell the men to make camp. Establish siege lines, begin constructing catapults, and send out foraging parties." Turning to the ginger knight. "Ser Horas, what explanation do you give for abandoning my son to this place?"

The other man could not quite look him in the eye and replied "Your Grace, when Lord Edwyn and Lord Tarly docked in Meereen, my men spotted the Greyjoys farther out in Slaver's Bay. We gave chase, but we did not catch them. By the time we returned, the city's harbour had been set alight. I did not want to risk my men in attacking the city. We were outnumbered."

Drakon stared at him for a moment, then said "Have all our ships form a blockade. Nothing gets in or out of Meereen's harbour. Fail me again, and you shall not live to make a third mistake." He pulled the spear from Rhaegon's neck, eliciting a pained growl from the creature. "I intend to strangle this city until Daenerys has no choice but to release Edwyn and Lord Tarly."

* * *

 _ **Within the Great Pyramid…**_

"Well, it would seem that the Black Dragon has come to our doorstep" Tyrion said, slowly pacing in front of the council table.

The queen sat at the table, along with Ser Barristan, Missandei, and Hizdahr zo Loraq, while Grey Worm and Daario Neharis opted to stand. Kovarro sat off to the side, holding onto Olene as she sat on his lap. Everyone appeared to be on edge, and rightly so, considering the army and two large Dragons ready to strike at them at any moment.

The torches flickered as silence reigned. It was pitch black outside, and while most of the city slept, the torchlight coming from the enemy camp and fleet could be easily seen.

Olene kept flashing back to Drakon Blackfyre's Dragons. When she had last seen them, they were the size of cats and perched on his shoulders. Granted, that was years ago, but now they looked large enough to swallow livestock whole. How could they defend against a threat like that? As she considered the implications of an attack, she took Kovarro's hand in hers and held it tightly.

"We need to ensure that our food stores are adequately filled" Hizdahr said. "If the people starve, then this city will fall to chaos and anarchy."

"What we need to do is eliminate the threat" Daario countered.

"If we attack prematurely, then it will only lead to further violence" Ser Barristan said. "I have to believe that we can find a diplomatic solution to this problem."

For a moment, the queen was silent. She then turned to Grey Worm and asked "How many people died in the pyramid?"

The Commander of the Unsullied replied in Valyrian "Fifty four, my queen. Most of them were former Masters." He still wore bandages around his midsection, as his wounds had not fully healed from the Sons of the Harpy's ambush.

"And you would have me negotiate with this man, Ser Barristan?"

Olene looked over at the old knight as Daario said "There's not going to be any negotiation because we are going to kill him."

Ser Barristan turned to look at him. "You would see thousands of men, women, and children die by having us try to assassinate the King of Westeros?"

"You think he brought an army all the way from Westeros just to free his son? No. He intends to depose you, my queen. You're the greatest rival to his power, and he wants to get rid of you. We need to get rid of him first." Olene found herself agreeing with that assessment, given how Drakon Blackfyre had gone back on his word and stolen the Iron Throne from the queen.

"I know Drakon, Your Grace" Ser Barristan said. "He is an honourable man."

The last Targaryen gave him an incredulous look. "Honourable? His family spent their entire history rebelling against mine, and now he threatens to burn my city."

"I know more than anyone living, Your Grace. I fought against his father's rebellion over forty years ago. I fought and killed Maelys in single combat. I also found a scared child in his tent, a child innocent of his father's crimes. Tywin Lannister murdered his mother, but your father bade me to take the boy under my charge. I raised him, taught him everything he knows about wielding a sword."

"That's not exactly comforting, Ser Barristan" Daario said, earning a glare from the old knight.

"Your Grace, he will listen to me if I speak with him. Let me convince him to stand his army down. Once he has his son, I know he will depart for Westeros. Otherwise, this will only end in bloodshed."

The queen stared down at the table for a few moments, obviously weighing the consequences. Eventually, she said "Very well, Ser Barristan. Speak with him. Do what you can."

He nodded and smiled in thanks before standing and leaving the council chamber. Olene and the others did so as well, leaving the queen to her thoughts.

Daario waited until the others were out of earshot, then turned to face Olene, Kovarro, and Grey Worm. "As much as I trust Ser Barristan, I don't trust his student. Drakon Blackfyre will attack, sooner rather than later. If we do not strike now, then we risk being caught helpless when he does."

The four of them exchanged a glance. "We cannot open the gates to launch an attack" Grey Worm said.

"We don't need to launch an attack. All we need is for me and a small group to slip inside his camp and kill him. Without him, his army will be leaderless and his Dragons won't be under his control anymore. If we don't, then he stands a very good chance of destroying this city and killing us all."

Olene nodded and said "I will go."

"I'm sorry, Olene, but your child—"

"Will not have the chance to grow up if Drakon Blackfyre destroys us. Very few can match my skill as a Water Dancer, and we will need our best warriors for this mission."

"I will go, as well" Kovarro said in his native tongue.

"As will I" Grey Worm added.

"You are still not fully healed, my friend" the Braavosi told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We cannot let you put yourself in harm's way."

Daario crossed his arms. "We would only need a dozen Unsullied to come with us. We sneak out through the sewers, enter his camp, and kill him. It's the only way."

* * *

 **Well, this should be interesting.**

 **Also, The Defenders is finally here! Woo woo!**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Hail King Cerion: This is GoT. Murphy's law is life.**


	16. Reunion

_**Within the Great Pyramid…**_

Daenerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, was troubled.

She slowly paced back and forth in her chambers, wringing her hands as she replayed the day's events over and over in her mind. The silver-haired woman sighed and walked over to the open wall, gazing out at the army amassed at her doorstep. It was her destiny, her birthright, to rule over the Seven Kingdoms, and yet, her future people had come to kill her subjects and destroy her city.

Somewhere out there, beneath the cloak of darkness, were a pair of large Dragons that were not her own. For so long, Daenerys had thought she was the only one to birth the creatures in the entire world. Apparently, she had been a fool, and the man who had also birthed his own Dragons happened to be the only other person in the world who shared her blood.

She flashed back to that moment on the balcony, when Drakon Blackfyre had announced himself from atop his silver pet. He had actually been riding the creature, like the Dragon riders of Old Valyria.

The image was burned into Daenerys' mind, and it was something that would remain with her until the end of her days.

Her brother had, of course, spoken at length of Old Valyria, citing their ancestors' ability to ride the magnificent creatures as their defining trait, and the Targaryens' inheritance of that strength. Viserys had been nothing but a fool with delusions of grandeur, and yet, Drakon Blackfyre had done the impossible. Not only had he birthed his own Dragons, but he also managed to train them enough to ride them.

The silver-haired woman was sorely lacking in answers; as the last living member of her family, she had no one to turn to, no one to provide her with the history and knowledge passed down from her forebears. She could not exactly enter her rival's camp and ask him.

And yet, she did have someone down in the dungeons who she could ask.

Making up her mind, Daenerys turned around and walked out of her chambers. A group of Unsullied fell into step around her, forming a protective wall around their queen. She was perfectly safe within the pyramid, but with her city under siege, anything was possible. The last Targaryen descended through the Great Pyramid, eventually coming to the dungeons and walking over to the familiar door. She gave a nod, and one of the Unsullied unlocked and opened it.

Torchlight streamed into the darkened cell, revealing Edwyn Blackfyre. Far from the overconfident young lord who she had met weeks ago, he was now curled into a ball on the floor, his back to the door.

"If the dwarf wants to try turning my cloak again, then there's no point. I am loyal to my father."

"His name is Tyrion" Daenerys reminded him. "And he already told me that he won't bother trying to turn you again."

Edwyn shakily stood at hearing her voice, groaning as he straightened out. His hair and beard were dirty and unkempt, while his skin had become very pale from the limited sunlight. "To what do I owe this… honour?"

She debated about whether or not to tell him, but eventually she said "Your father has arrived."

The silver-haired woman saw the look of sheer delight and relief on his face. There had been times, long ago, when she had wished for someone to come save her, to destroy her enemies and whisk her away to a place where she could be safe and happy. They never came for her, and she had had to rely on herself for most of her life.

"You weren't lying about him. He brought a large army to my gates, along with two large Dragons."

Edwyn licked his dry, cracked lips, puffed up his chest, and said "I told you this would happen. Release me, or your pathetic little city will burn."

Daenerys pursed her lips. "Haven't you learned that bravado will not serve you here? Maybe I should leave you alone in this cell a little longer. I'm sure you've gotten used to being in the dark by now."

She started to turn around, but he said "Wait! Wait!" The last Targaryen looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. "You obviously came down here for a reason. What is it?"

"How did your father birth his Dragons? And how can he ride them?"

The young Blackfyre sighed, then slid down the far wall until he was sitting. "He found the eggs in the ruins of the Dragonpit in King's Landing, the place where your family used to house their Dragons. For months, he tried to get them to hatch, but nothing came of it. Then, one of his enemies, Lady Buckwell, stole them. He gave chase with over twenty men, and when he came back, the Dragons were perched on his shoulders. His clothes and hair had been burned away, and he was covered in ashes. He told us that he had burned Lady Buckwell alive on a pyre, and that had somehow been the key to hatching the eggs."

Daenerys looked down at the floor as she processed the information. From what he described, it sounded exactly like when she had birthed Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal: Mirri Maz Duur, the witch who had taken her husband and son from her, had burned, allowing her children to be born.

"That was the worst day of my life" Edwyn muttered.

"Why is that?"

He looked up at her, looking hesitant, but said "My mother was pregnant at the time. While my father was away, she was giving birth. She… she and her twins died, and my father arrived minutes later. The Maester determined that she had been poisoned by Lady Buckwell."

The silver-haired woman's mouth fell open a little. So, Drakon Blackfyre had also lost children, only for them to be replaced by Dragons.

Pushing past the pang of sympathy she felt, Daenerys asked "How does he know how to ride his Dragons?"

"He grew up in the Red Keep in King's Landing. Spent most of his time in the library, reading every book in every shelf. He learned a great deal of your family's history, enough to train Rhaegon and Maelion and ride them into battle."

"What did you say?"

He furrowed his brow. "Which part?"

"His Dragons. What does he call them?"

"The bronze one is Maelion, named after his father Maelys, and the silver one is named Rhaegon, named after his best friend. Your brother."

Daenerys recalled Drakon's first letter to her, which he had sent along with Olene when she and her people had wandered through the Red Waste. He claimed to have grown up with her brother Rhaegar, but she never quite believed him. She had never trusted the words of others about her family, especially her brother, but apparently Drakon Blackfyre's claim might possess a grain of truth.

"I tell you this because it is the truth, Daenerys Targaryen, not out of vanity or pride: my father will come for me, and he will kill anyone who stands in his way. You can prevent a slaughter by releasing me, and I swear that we will leave you be. You will never have to hear from us again. This is no lie."

Clasping her fingers together, she said "Ser Barristan is speaking with your father right now. Come daybreak, we will both know if you are a liar."

With that, she turned around and walked away.

* * *

 **Outside the city…**

Drakon ducked beneath a sword slice, then aimed a diagonal slice at his opponent.

Loras Tyrell blocked the strike and tried to attack three more times. Each time, the muscular man easily deflected the knight's blade or shove it back with his superior strength. The King of Westeros was dressed in simple black pants, opting to leave his thick torso bare, while the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard wore his black armour without the helmet. The Valyrian Steel blade of Blackfyre almost sang as it clashed with Loras' inferior, though still well-forged, weapon.

The torches cast light into his spacious tent as they both sparred, and Ser Prester and Ser Balon stood guard on either side of the entrance. Night had fallen a scant few hours earlier, and the siege of Meereen had just begun.

Drakon had made it regular practice to spar with his Kingsguard, so as to continually improve their abilities. Thus far, none had actually beaten him, but Ser Loras, Ser Prester, and Ser Harras were the best of them. The muscular man knew that he was the finest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms; it was not vanity that made him think this, but the simple fact that he had been personally trained from childhood to adulthood by Barristan Selmy, the greatest swordsman who ever lived or would live.

"You fight well, Ser" he told the younger man, smirking a little as they traded blow for blow.

Loras replied "I'm still not good enough to beat you, Your Grace. It seems a bit shameful that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is weaker than the king he is supposed to protect."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. No one can beat me."

The former heir to Highgarden then lunged, but Drakon had expected as much. Loras was a fine warrior, but he was hot-tempered and overly aggressive in his attacks, more akin to a raging bull. The muscular man sidestepped the attack while simultaneously striking his opponent in the back of the head with his elbow, knocking him to the floor. He then helped the Kingsguard to his feet.

Just then, one of the guards outside the tent said "Your Grace, an envoy from Meereen wishes to speak with you."

Drakon looked at Ser Prester and nodded. The Northerner pulled back the flap, and to the muscular man's astonishment, Barristan Selmy entered. "Ser Barristan" he said, smiling from joy. He motioned to Dickon Brune, his squire, and the lad took Blackfyre from him. He then walked over to the older man and embraced him in a bear hug. "When I heard that you had been injured, I feared that I might never see you again."

"It will take more than a few cowards in masks with kitchen knives to kill me" Ser Barristan replied with a smirk. He glanced at the others and asked "Might we speak in private?"

"Of course, of course" Drakon said. "Leave us" he told the three knights.

"Your Grace", Ser Loras said, sheathing his sword, "as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, my place is by your side. It is my duty to protect you."

"And you can protect me from outside. I have nothing to fear from Ser Barristan."

"But—"

"That was a command" Drakon said more forcefully. "Will you defy your king?"

This time, the Knight of the Flowers relented, bowing before he and the other two knights stepped out of the tent. Dickon Brune then spoke up, asking "Wine, Your Grace?"

"Water." The teenager poured two cups of water, and after handing them to Drakon and his adoptive father, he left as well.

Ser Barristan glanced at the tent flap, then arched an eyebrow. "Loras Tyrell?"

Drakon shrugged. "He's a fine warrior, and it gave me the opportunity to ensure House Blackfyre rules over the Reach. The other three Kingsguard are back in King's Landing, watching over my wife and children."

The older man took a sip of water, then furrowed his brow. "Only six? You have no seventh?"

The muscular man swirled the water in his cup. "I've… kept the seventh position open for you. I was hoping that, one day, you could reclaim your rightful position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"What about Loras?"

"We both know that Loras is just a child. He's a fine warrior, but he has nowhere near your experience or wisdom, my friend."

Ser Barristan sighed. "Drakon—"

"You told me four years ago that none of the Kingsguard who served Joffrey were worthy of the white cloak. I took that to heart. When I took the Iron Throne, I killed most of them, wiped the slate clean. Now, the Kingsguard are filled with some of the greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, men who will have songs written about them in the coming years. No one deserves to command them more than you, Ser Barristan. You served as Lord Commander to a fat, whoring drunk who murdered a man I called brother and to a vicious little boy who insulted everything you stood for by dismissing you. You deserve the chance to serve a proper king, one who deserves to sit on the Iron Throne. Together, we can write our names into legend, just as Duncan the Tall and Aegon V did so many years ago."

The older man was silent for a moment, and Drakon hoped with all his heart that the man who raised him would accept his offer. Eventually, Ser Barristan placed a hand on his shoulder and said "I'm sorry, my boy. I swore a vow to serve the queen, and I take my vows seriously."

Drakon shrugged off his hand, not bothering to hide his hurt and disappointment. Scowling, he drank all the water in his cup with a single gulp. "Maybe I will have some wine, after all."

As he poured himself some wine, Ser Barristan said "Drakon, I'm here to negotiate a truce with you."

"Unless your queen will release my son immediately, then there's nothing to discuss" the muscular man replied, taking a sip of wine.

"Your son is implicated in an attack on the harbour."

"He would never do that, Ser Barristan" Drakon told him. "I gave him explicit orders not to antagonize Daenerys. He was only out here hunting Yara and Theon Greyjoy. He would never do something so stupid."

"Nevertheless, I'm here to ensure that this does not end in bloodshed."

"Good. Tell Daenerys to give me my son and Randyll Tarly, and I will leave her to rule over her city. If she refuses, then I will burn a single structure every day until Edwyn is freed. Eventually, when her people start starving and walking over the ashes of their dead, they will blame her, and she will have no choice but to comply. How long can she wait before the citizens of Meereen want to tear her to pieces?"

"Please, Drakon" Ser Barristan said. "I implore you: hold off any attack and let us determine your son's innocence with a trial. If he is blameless, as you say, then he will be released."

"You would have me stand idly by while the woman who wants to take my throne holds my son captive? Does she share your sense of honour, Ser Barristan?"

"Some would say that you do not" the older man said, looking him in the eye.

Just as the muscular man was about to reply, a horn blew nearby, sounding the alarm.

* * *

 _ **A few minutes earlier…**_

Olene and Kovarro walked down the stairs, each holding lit torches as they descended into the old slave pens at the edge of the city. It was here that Grey Worm and the Unsullied had first entered the city, inspiring a slave revolt against the so-called 'Great Masters', and it was here where they would sneak out so as to enter Drakon Blackfyre's camp in the dark of night.

They came to the slave pens, empty since the queen had taken control of Meereen, and walked over to the sewer that led outside the city walls. The Braavosi and her Dothraki husband stood on either side, ushering the dozen Unsullied and Daario Neharis through.

Before entering themselves, they both embraced in a deep and passionate kiss. When their lips separated, Kovarro placed a hand on her belly and said "I've been thinking of a name for my son."

"What is it?" she asked in Dothraki.

"Rakharo."

One of his fallen brethren, and one of the first Bloodriders to the queen. She and the others had been mourning his death when Olene had encountered them in the Red Waste. She smiled and said "I look forward to seeing Rakharo learn how to ride a horse from his father."

They kissed once more, then entered the sewer and followed after their companions.

After stepping outside, they doused their torches and jogged over to a large rock that hid them from view. Olene stood beside Daario, and they both stared out at the enemy camp. The bowl-shaped depression was almost completely filled with tents with lit torches that twinkled like starlight. They could see several men in the process of carving wooden logs into what must have been catapults or other siege weapons.

"There" Daario said, pointing to the cliff overlooking the depression. Olene could see several more tents there, and one of them was larger than all the rest. That must have been Drakon Blackfyre's tent. "Westerosi lords always have the bigger tents."

"Come" the Braavosi said in Valyrian as she started to skirt the edge of the depression along with Daario. The Unsullied followed close behind.

Daario held up a hand, and everyone stopped. There were several sentries along the perimeter, and if they weren't careful, then they were going to be spotted. The leader of the Second Sons pointed to Olene and Kovarro, then jerked a thumb towards the sentries. The three drew their weapons and quickly darted along the ground. They all wore dark clothing, which would help them meld into the shadows.

Daario ran over to one of the sentries, and when he was close enough, he threw his stiletto at the man while his back was turned. It pierced his back, and there was barely a grunt as he collapsed. Olene's target looked towards the sound, and she chose that moment to break into a sprint. She then slid across the ground, tripping him. Before he had a chance to stand up, she got up onto one knee and ran the tip of her rapier through his unarmoured throat. There was a little sputtering as he coughed blood, but otherwise no noise. Kovarro dispatched his target by slicing him across the chest with his Arakh.

With that, the trio rejoined the dozen Unsullied.

They continued to skirt the edge of the depression, dispatching the odd sentry along the way. They slowly ascended the road from Meereen until they reached the cliff. As they entered the second group of tents, they paused and crouched behind an unmarked tent. A short distance away, they could see Drakon Blackfyre's Dragons sleeping on the road, their golden wings and silver and bronze-scaled hides standing out even in the pitch-blackness.

"Let's try not to wake those things" Daario said sardonically. "I'm too pretty to become dinner." Olene smirked as they kept moving. She noticed Kovarro staring, slack jawed, at the two magnificent creatures, and she flicked a finger on his forehead. He shook his head and returned to the mission at hand.

They weaved their way through the tents, killing a half dozen more sentries and wandering soldiers. "Okay, we'll circle around his tent and—" Daario started to say. He was interrupted by the sound of something growling close by.

Suddenly, a wolf the size of a pony leapt at them, its jaws open for the kill.

* * *

 **Last night's episode… holy crap. I know a lot of people hated the episode, especially for the quickened pacing that's been going on this season, but I have to play devil's advocate and say that Dan and Dave have done an incredible job with the show. The simple fact of the matter is that they simply don't have the time. Even if they weren't compressing the episodes like they are, the pace of the story would increase. You only have so much time with television, and they can't show everything.**

 **I invite you all to review/favourite! Your responses are what motivate me to keep writing stories like this!**

 **Trojan Prince: No worries! As we get closer to the climax of this season, the chapters will get a bit longer moving forward. I hope this chapter sated your Barristan craving. ;)**

 **Hail King Cerion: Yeah, I can't see their decision having pleasant consequences.**

 **krasni: Valid points! Yes, Drakon did attack first, but in his mind, he was provoked when his son was taken captive. While it was due to extremely unfortunate circumstances, he doesn't care about any of that; because of his past, and all the losses he's suffered, his single greatest fear is losing any more of his family. If someone he loves is threatened, he will burn down as many cities and kill as many people as needed to rescue them. He would fly to hell and back, and that's why he's currently violating his earlier promise to Daenerys and attacking her. As for the Dragons, one might as well use them to full advantage if one has them.**


	17. Loyalty and Honour

Samwell strode through the camp, having finished overseeing its establishment as well as the preparations for the siege. Walking beside him was Nymeria, his pet Direwolf. The massive wolf stood slightly higher than his waist, and her fur was mostly white with patches of grey and black.

Several soldiers stopped what they were doing to stare at the Direwolf, while those who walked past the stocky man and his pet kept a wide berth. Samwell found himself wondering if any of the Northmen in Robb Stark's army were just as uneasy around his pet. From what he knew, the creatures were not seen south of the Wall, meaning that they were a rare sight in the North. To have one south of the Neck at all had been completely unheard of until the War of Five Kings, and to his knowledge, Nymeria was the only surviving Direwolf that formerly belonged to the Stark children.

Eventually, he arrived at his tent. He held the flap open, and Nymeria walked inside as he followed. She circled the open area in front of his bed before lying down on the ground. Samwell unslung his greatsword, the former Lannister Valyrian Steel weapon known as Brightroar, and placed it down on his bed.

He then sat down in a chair beside Nymeria, sighing in pleasure at the chance to rest. He knew that the days ahead would hold little time for relaxation, so he took advantage of what time he could find.

Samwell reached over and poured himself a cup of wine before taking a sip. As he did so, he looked over at one side of his tent, where a banner depicting his House's sigil hung. When King Drakon had made him a lord and granted him the seat of Storm's End, he had had to create his own sigil: a golden lion on a field of bronze being pierced by a black spear. It simultaneously denoted his role in annihilating House Lannister during the Second War of Conquest as well as giving a nod to his origins as the former heir of House Royce.

His House's words were _Loyalty and honour_.

When he looked at the sigil he had created, Samwell was reminded of his king's generosity. Drakon Blackfyre had given him everything he now had, including Brightroar and Storm's End. He owed everything to the rightful king.

The stocky man had been knighted by none other than Barristan Selmy after saving the older man's life in the attack on Old Wyk during the Greyjoy Rebellion. It had been the proudest moment of his life, but a few years later, his father had disowned him. Cast out from his home in the Vale, Samwell had wandered the Seven Kingdoms, offering his services to any lord that would take him. Eventually, he had come into the service of Drakon Blackfyre, then known by his alias of Sebastion Storm. A bastard with nothing to his name had taken Samwell in, giving him a place at his table and taking him into his confidence.

The new Lord of Storm's End would remain loyal to his king, and his king's family, until his last breath. With any luck, he would still have many years left to serve and protect them.

Suddenly, Nymeria raised her head and started growling.

Samwell put down his goblet and stood as the Direwolf did the same. He grabbed Brightroar and drew it from its sheath. Normally, a greatsword was quite heavy, requiring a two-handed grip, but the Valyrian Steel blade was many times lighter than regular steel, so he could carry it with one hand if he wanted.

Nymeria continued to growl and bared her fangs. Something was definitely wrong, and Samwell crept over to his tent flap. He pulled it open just enough so that he could see outside, and his heart started racing as he saw at least a dozen men in leather armour with spears silently creeping through the camp, the corpses of several sentries on the ground. With them were two men and a woman in dark clothing, the men wielding Dothraki Arakhs and the woman wielding a thin rapier.

Taking a deep breath, the stocky man pulled the flap all the way open and jerked his head to where the intruders were. Nymeria took the hint and charged outside, leaping through the air and tackling one of the spear-wielding soldiers to the ground. She savagely tore his throat open with her fangs, catching the others by surprise.

Samwell took advantage of the distraction by stepping outside and attacking the closest enemy soldier, beheading him with a single swing of his greatsword.

"Sound the alarm!" he bellowed.

Several people nearby shouted in response, and one of the sentries had enough wit to blow on a horn, alerting the whole army as to the intrusion. The enemy soldiers, realizing that they had failed utterly, focused their attention on Samwell and his Direwolf.

One of the spear-wielders rushed him, thrusting his weapon at the stocky man's gut. Samwell took a step back, barely avoiding being skewered like a pig, then brought his greatsword down in an overhead chop with enough force to knock the spear out of the other man's hands. He then took a step forward and sliced his opponent across the chest, killing him instantly.

Suddenly, his body flashed with pain as a spear tip punctured his side. Samwell gripped the haft of the spear, using all his strength to keep it from going in further. He and the weapon's owner struggled for a moment, matching each other's strength as chaos erupted.

Seeing that he was in danger, Nymeria growled as she tackled the other man to the ground, the impact sufficient to knock off his helmet. She then tore at his face with her claws, raking the skin as easily as one would peel the skin from a potato. Samwell was reminded of his first encounter with the Direwolf, in the wilds near Dragon's Rest. She had killed a pair of the hunters he had brought along and given him the scars on his face.

A number of soldiers then entered the fray, attacking the enemy as the stocky man pulled the spear from his side.

Tossing it on the ground, he saw that the spear-wielders were excellent warriors. They expertly handled their weapons and kept their focus. They showed no signs of fear or breaking against the steadily rising odds stacked against them. One of them tried attacking him, but he brought his greatsword to bear, slicing the man's spear in half before he stabbed him through the chest.

Samwell grunted in pain, holding a hand over his wound as he fell to one knee, planting his weapon in the ground to support himself.

Suddenly, a pair of monstrous roars sounded from nearby.

* * *

 _ **Nearby…**_

Drakon heard the horn sounding nearby and crushed the goblet in his hand. He turned to face Ser Barristan and growled "So, this is how you 'negotiate'? Distract me with talk while your comrades sneak into my camp and assassinate me?"

"Drakon, I had no knowledge of this" the older man assured him. "I counseled against violence."

"Well, it appears that Daenerys' other servants lack your sense of honour" the muscular man said, tossing the crushed goblet. "Stay here if you want to live." He then grabbed Blackfyre and drew it from its sheath before stepping outside. Ser Loras, Ser Prester, and Ser Balon gathered around him, their hands on their swords. With his family's ancestral sword in hand, Drakon walked through the camp, following the sounds of combat until he came upon the intruders.

A number of Unsullied were packed tightly in formation, fending off a number of his soldiers with their spears and superior training. Two men and a woman were separate from them, displaying their prowess with their respective blades as they used speed and skill to overcome his soldiers. One of the men was clearly a Dothraki, while the other looked to be a Sellsword. The woman was recognizable, and it took Drakon a moment to remember her.

"Olene of Braavos" he called. She rolled behind a man from the Stormlands and sliced the back of his knees with her rapier, disabling him. "How many years has it been since last we saw one another?"

She scowled over at him. "You betrayed the queen. Stole her throne."

"I merely took what was mine" he countered. Turning to the Kingsguard, he said "Kill the others. Leave her for me." As the three knights moved on the Unsullied, Drakon and Olene faced off. The Braavosi entered the classic Water Dance fighting stance, standing side face and holding her rapier upward at an angle.

The muscular man cracked his neck and made the first move, aiming a slice at her neck. She easily ducked, quickly cutting his side as she spun on her heel to face him again. He tried attacking again with a thrust, but she ran her blade along the side of his and aimed a thrust of her own at his face. He moved his head, but the tip of the rapier still managed to cut his cheek.

Several more attacks proved equally fruitless; the Braavosi was much faster than him, displaying her mastery of the Water Dance as she weaved this way and that, avoiding all his attacks. Compared to her, he was like a lumbering beast with absolutely no finesse.

Which was exactly what he wanted her to think.

As their duel continued, she became just a little bit slower in her movements, that much less wary of him. She became overconfident, and he began to see small mistakes, windows of opportunity that the Braavosi left open due to her perceived superiority over him. As she stood in front of him, she thrust with her rapier, intending to finish him with a stab to the heart. Stinging from half a dozen small cuts, Drakon suddenly burst into action, flicking his wrist downwards and swatting her rapier aside with Blackfyre.

He then drew his Valyrian Steel dagger from its sheath in the waistband of his breeches and, kneeling, quickly sliced her in the leg with it.

Olene grunted in both pain and surprise, realizing that he had lulled her into a false sense of superiority. She attempted to quickly slice him across his exposed chest, but he managed to bring his sword up in time and block her weapon. He then stood and struck her in the face with his left elbow, knocking her back a step.

Drakon proceeded to spin in a circle and slice her across the stomach with Blackfyre.

The Braavosi cried out as she held a hand to her stomach, collapsing onto the ground. "Moon of my life!" someone shouted in Dothraki. Drakon turned and saw the horse-lord dueling with Balon Swann. He dodged an attack and wasted no time in charging towards him.

The muscular man ducked beneath a slice from the other man's Arakh while at the same time slicing his leg with the Valyrian Steel dagger. He followed up by slicing the Dothrakan's back, which caused the man to fall to the ground.

"Fearless in battle" Drakon said, sheathing his dagger. "But that makes you all the more stupid." He rolled the man over and, gripping him by the throat, lifted him so that his feet were dangling above the ground with his prodigious strength. "This is the price of defying the Black Dragon" he said. With that, he squeezed as hard as he could, choking the life from the horse-lord. He soon felt the other man's neck snap beneath his grip as he became limp.

Drakon reached behind the man with Blackfyre and sliced his braid off, dumping his body on the ground.

Just then, a pair of monstrous roars sounded as Rhaegon and Maelion became aware of the fight that was going on. The Dragons lumbered over to them, demolishing a tent in the process as their jaws opened and closed in anticipation of a meal. Rhaegon arrived first, and he immediately clamped his jaws down on one of the Unsullied, thrashing his head from side to side before swallowing the man whole. Maelion reared his head back and breathed a brief spout of flame that engulfed half a dozen more.

" _Kelitis_!" the muscular man shouted, and the Dragons paused in their attack. They looked down at him, and he said " _Sovetis_! _Sovetis_!"

After a moment's hesitation, they both roared as they took flight, leaving the camp behind.

Drakon turned his attention back to the enemy soldiers and his own. Both groups had ceased fighting in the midst of the Dragons leaving, and the din of swordfighting was replaced by stark silence. "Enough!" the muscular man said. "Your little assassination attempt has failed. I will allow you to leave and go back to your queen. Tell her that she can expect Blood and Fire if my son is not returned to me. Go!"

Tentatively, the Sellsword and the Unsullied relaxed their stances. They then started walking down the road that led to Meereen's gates.

Turning to his right, Drakon saw Ser Barristan, who had been watching the proceedings, walk over and scoop an injured Olene in his arms as the Sellsword hoisted the dead Dothrakan onto his back. The muscular man and his mentor shared a meaningful stare; both men knew that there was no going back, and all chance of a peaceful resolution died that night.

Once Ser Barristan and his comrades were gone, Samwell limped over to Drakon, who saw that he was bleeding from the side. He took one of the stocky man's arms around his shoulders, supporting his weight, and helped him over to one of the medical tents. "Round up all the sentries that were on duty tonight" he commanded to several nearby officers. "Give the man who sounded the horn twenty silver. Hang half of them, and make the other half watch. Let them see the price of incompetence."

The war between him and Daenerys had now truly begun.

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Hail King Cerion: Yeah. In Drakon's mind, Barristan will always be a friend and ally, and he would take every opportunity to recruit him.**

 **mrean22: I can see that happening. After all, anything's possible. Thanks for stopping by. ;)**

 **krasni: Jon is at the Wall, Sansa is at Winterfell, Arya is in Braavos, Bran is North of the Wall, and Rickon is MIA at the moment. Samwell picked up Nymeria in The Black Dragon.**

 **nanold: It's always nice to hear that an OC is liked by the readers. And if you not liking Daenerys is in any way due to my writing, then feel free to offer some suggestions! I always welcome constructive criticism and feedback from my readers.**


	18. Oaths and Bargains

_**Meereen…**_

Olene shot up in bed, gasping for breath. Her heart thundered in her chest as she struggled to get her breathing under control. She looked around at her surroundings, noting that she must have been brought back into the city. Sunlight streamed into the room through square-shaped holes that served as windows.

The Braavosi threw the sheets off her body and saw the white bandage wrapped around her stomach. She tore at it with her hands, ripping it apart piece by piece.

Once it was gone, Olene could see the long, thin line that ran across her belly that was held together with stitches. She hugged herself tightly, rocking back and forth on the bed as someone entered. It was the queen, and the silver-haired woman's mouth fell open as she saw her. "Olene!" she said, rushing over to her side. "You're alright."

"Your Grace" the Braavosi said, calming down a little. "Do you know if my child survived?"

The queen could not look her in the eyes. "The healers were able to sew your wound, but… your child did not survive. I'm so sorry." She held Olene's hand in her own, squeezing it tight.

Olene stared at the wall ahead, feeling like a crushing weight was grinding her down. "Where is Kovarro? I want to see him."

Silence.

"Where is Kovarro?" she repeated more forcefully, forgetting that she was speaking to the queen.

"He did not survive" Daario said as he entered alongside Ser Barristan.

Olene opened her mouth, but did not make a sound. She then fell back on the bed and curled into a ball as she began to openly cry.

"You disobeyed my orders" the queen said, standing and turning to face Daario.

"Technically, you never commanded me not to sneak into his camp" the Sellsword replied.

"I could have you executed for what you did. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I did what I thought was right. We were never going to win through diplomacy, so I acted. I did it for you, my queen."

Ser Barristan glared at him. "And now, because of you, we never will. Drakon would have listened to me, I know it, but after you tried to kill him in the middle of the night, he will not stop. He seeks retribution, and I fear he will burn this city to the ground before long. I sent envoys, and he sent back their heads."

"I am going to kill him." All eyes turned to Olene, who was still curled in a ball on the bed. The pillow was moist from her tears, and her eyes were red and puffy. "Whether it takes a day, a month, a year, ten years, or fifty, I am going to kill Drakon Blackfyre. And when I see the life draining from his eyes, when I know that he has suffered as much as I have, then I will join Kovarro in the Night Lands."

* * *

 _ **Outside the city…**_

Drakon kept a firm grip on Rhaegon's reins as the silver Dragon flew over the streets of Meereen with Maelion flying beside him. He had led both of his Draconic children to destroy a random structure in the city, and now they flew back towards camp. It had been two days since the attempt on his life, and now, two buildings were destroyed. On the ground, he could see a row of catapults that his soldiers were using to lob boulders and flaming barrels over the walls. Off in the distance, he could see his fleet in the bay as it maintained its blockade.

The Dragons came to land on the ground beside the road, throwing up dust clouds as they did so. Drakon dismounted, running a hand along Rhaegon's thick, scaled neck and speaking in Valyrian to him.

"Your Grace." He turned to see the three Kingsguard approaching, each of them keeping a wary gaze on the large creatures. "You have guests."

Furrowing his brow, the muscular man proceeded to walk over to his tent, the plates of his Black Dragon armour rustling as his crimson cape flowed behind him. He stepped inside and saw Samwell standing off to the side. The stocky man was garbed in his usual dark leather attire, with his self-made sigil of a golden lion being pierced by a black spear depicted on the front. With him were three individuals that obviously hailed from Slaver's Bay; judging by their ornate attire and small horde of slave attendants, they were Masters.

"Your Grace" Samwell said, inclining his head.

Drakon came to stand at the back of his tent, turning to face the others. "Samwell. And who might these be?"

He glanced at the Masters, then said "May I present the… honourable Razdal mo Eraz, of the Wise Masters of Yunkai, Belicho Paenymion, of the Triarchs of Volantis, and Yezzan zo Qaggaz, representing the Good Masters of Astapor."

The muscular man nodded. He recognized the attire of the Volantene, as he and his army had purchased supplies in Volantis before arriving at Meereen.

"Honourable representatives, you stand before Drakon of the House Blackfyre, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Father of Dragons" Samwell told them, walking over to his side.

Drakon gestured to some nearby servants, who brought chairs for the three men. "Please, sit." They all did so, and he remained standing and asked "To what may I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

The one in the middle, Razdal, spoke first. "We come to speak with you, Dragon King, because we believe that we have a common enemy." The man spoke the Common Tongue very well, which spoke to his high status.

"Daenerys Stormborn."

The other man nodded. "When she came to my city, I offered her favourable terms. She rejected these, and stole the Second Sons from us before conquering Yunkai and stealing all our slaves from us." Drakon glanced at the slaves standing, with their heads bowed, behind their masters. He had seen slavery up close during the near three years he had lived in Essos, and while he may have had nothing but contempt for the institution, he knew that he could not try to demolish it overnight.

That was precisely what had earned Daenerys the ire of all Slaver's Bay. Drakon knew that these men desired vengeance against her, and their anger would prove useful to him.

"I understand. You wish to reclaim what is yours" he said, careful to sound diplomatic and sympathetic without expressing any of his disgust at the slavers.

"Precisely" Razdal said, a smile forming on his face. "We wish to form an alliance."

Drakon interlocked his clawed gauntlets. "And why should I be interested in such an alliance? What do you have to offer me?"

Razdal clapped his hands, and two pairs of slaves carried two chests and laid them at the muscular man's feet. They then opened the lids, and he saw that they were both filled to the brim with gold. He was not like the Lannisters, or most of the nobles of Westeros; he himself held little value for gold and the vanities of the nobility, but he understood that gold was necessary. In this case, it would bring much-needed resources with which to pay off the crown's debt to the Iron Bank, as well as opening a number of doors which had been previously closed to him.

"Very impressive" Drakon said.

"That is not all. We have brought much for you, Dragon King."

Yezzan then stood, grabbing a sword in its sheath from one of the slaves. He stepped over to Drakon, glancing at the three Kingsguard, and held it out to him. The muscular man appraised the weapon for a moment, and his eyes suddenly widened as he realized that he was looking upon Dark Sister, the second ancestral Targaryen blade that had been once wielded by Visenya Targaryen during Aegon's Conquest.

He reached out and took the weapon, holding it with the reverence it deserved. He drew it a little from its sheath and saw the telltale ripples on the blade that only belonged to Valyrian Steel.

Drakon recognized it from dozens of illustrations he had seen in books while growing up in the Red Keep. "How did you acquire this?"

"That sword has been missing for over a century. It found its way east, and one of the Good Masters of Astapor purchased it. He has given it freely to you as a gesture of good faith."

Belicho, the Volantene Triarch, then said "We have brought other gifts, as well." A few of the female slaves then walked over, their clothing barely offering any concealment as they swayed their hips. "We offer a slave for every man in your army, ten for the lords and officers, and to you we give the choice of 100 maidens."

As he held Dark Sister, Drakon held up a hand. The two slaves that were approaching him stopped, and he said "I'm sure my soldiers would very much appreciate this part of the bargain, but I am spoken for."

Belicho gestured for the women to come back, and Razdal asked "Do we have an accord?"

Drakon held Dark Sister in one hand and looked at each of the three Masters. "Before I would agree to any terms, I would give my own. In return for your cities' support in keeping my army fed, supplied, and happy with your… offerings, and in return for gifts of gold daily, I will ensure that Daenerys Targaryen is removed from Slaver's Bay. I will also instruct my soldiers to minimize Unsullied and slave killings, so that you may salvage what profits you can from all this."

The three Masters glanced gravely at each other as they realized he was not going to be bought so easily. If Drakon was going to be bought at all, then he might as well charge as much as he can for something he was going to do already.

"If you could have unseated Daenerys yourselves, you would have done it already" he reminded them. "She has inspired true, undying loyalty in her servants, and that is why your efforts have been for nought. I am the only one who can crush her, and I will do it on my terms. You need me."

Eventually, the three men, after quietly conversing, looked back at him. "We accept your terms" Razdal, obviously the most diplomatic of the three, replied.

Drakon allowed himself a small smile. "Excellent. Let us drink to our new alliance."

* * *

 _ **In Flea Bottom…**_

Ser Hugo Flint, Lord Commander of the City Watch, sneered as he watched his men separate a group of drunken brawlers. They had been called to the _Hairy Lip_ tavern to deal with a brawl that had erupted in the wake of slurred insults and dulled wits. One of the patrons had said something disparaging about another's mother, and suddenly he wound up being stabbed in the gut with a kitchen knife. That had prompted another man to punch a stranger in the face, and the entire tavern had broken into chaos.

He watched as his Goldcloaks roughly pulled the patrons apart from one another. The man who had been stabbed was lying on the floor, bleeding from his stomach.

"Get this man some help" Ser Hugo said. "And throw the rest of this lot into the dungeons. They can face their punishments once they've had a chance to sleep off the ale."

"Aye, commander" one of his men said.

With that settled, the Lord Commander finished with the rest of his duties. After establishing the nightly patrol routes and finalizing all the arrests of the day, he retired for the night. He left the Goldcloak barracks and made his way through the streets of King's Landing as the sun set. Ever since the end of the War of Five Kings and the Second War of Conquest, the city had finally settled down from its years-long war footing.

The City Watch had gone back to its standard 2, 000 members, which was considerably less of a headache for Ser Hugo to deal with on a daily basis. King's Landing was never fully at peace, however; the end of war saw a return to simple living, which often involved the odd drunken brawl or accusation of theft or swindling.

In his experience, people always resorted to violence, especially when they were bored.

Eventually, he arrived at his destination. The brothel was one of the finest in the city, along with the most expensive. Still, one usually got what one paid for.

As he walked over to the door, Ser Hugo saw a man on a ladder chiseling away the mockingbird sigil of Petyr Baelish, the establishment's former owner. Now that the power-hungry man was dead by the king's order, his legacy was being slowly chipped away, one piece at a time.

Ser Hugo stepped inside, and was greeted by the madam. "Well hello there, Lord Commander" she greeted warmly. The two of them had worked out an arrangement: in return for a discount for him and his men, he would ensure that the girls and the establishment were adequately protected while at the same time limiting the number of 'official' visits.

"Tammy" he greeted.

"I expect you'll want Shilese again?"

He nodded, handing her a small bag of coins.

"You know where she is."

The knight proceeded to make his way through the brothel until he came to Shilese's door. The dark-haired woman smirked as she saw him. "Nice to see you again, Lord Commander" she said, gently pulling him into the room.

Afterwards, he sat up in the bed, casually glancing at the room's finery. Littlefinger had been many things, but he certainly knew how to make a brothel look like a palace.

"I've been wondering" Shilese said. Ser Hugo turned to look at her, appreciating the smooth skin of her leg as it draped over the sheets. "How come you always choose me? There's got to be prettier girls here, though I can't imagine they can do half the things I can."

The knight smiled a little. "I had a wife, once. Leena. We were married for seven years, until she was killed nearly five years ago. I mourned her for a long time." He looked Shilese in the eye and said "You look like her."

Just then, there was some sort of commotion coming from outside. Ser Hugo could hear raised voices and the sound of glass being smashed.

"Stay here" Ser Hugo said, walking over to where his clothes were on a table. Just as he grabbed his sword, the door burst open. Shilese let out a shriek as several men with bare feet and black wool tunics with chains entered. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. One of the men walked over to Shilese and dragged her from the bed. "You can't—"

Another one backhanded him across the face, and two held him by the arms.

"I am Lord Commander of the City Watch" he growled, tasting blood in his mouth. "I will have you all hanged for—"

This time, a punch to the stomach.

He was roughly shoved out of the room as the other men began to tear at the sheets and smash all the finery. Ser Hugo was not the only one being assaulted, for he could see every patron and every girl being struck by men wearing the exact same black tunics and chains. Many carried clubs or switches, which they were putting to use on the people as well as the furniture and windows.

"Pedophile!" one of them spat as he punched a balding man who, judging by his rings, was a noble of some sort.

"Boy-fucker!" another added, drawing a knife. Ser Hugo heard the man shrieking in agony as he and several others were dragged out of the brothel. He was roughly thrown onto the cobblestones, feeling the open air on his naked body. The knight quickly stood up and turned to face his attackers, his nostrils flaring and fists clenched, but stopped himself upon seeing the fanatics gripping their cudgels.

One of them, a bald man, struck him with a switch. Ser Hugo's arm flared with pain. "Walk."

"I am the Lord Commander of—"

Again, the switch.

Growling, Ser Hugo turned and started walking, as did the other naked patrons. He placed his hands over his manhood in order to maintain at least a modicum of dignity, but when he did, he was struck with the switch. Grunting, he held his hands out to the side, forced to walk naked through the streets of King's Landing.

"Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!"

* * *

 **Things just got really serious, eh?**

 **In terms of the Masters, Drakon sees them as useful tools as opposed to true allies. They have significant resources, people inside the city, and are desperate enough to come to him. They want Daenerys out, and they see Drakon as a Hail-Mary that can finally solve their problems. At this point, he is familiar enough with men like them to know how to play them, and he is familiar with their ways from the years he lived in Essos. While he despises them and their ways, he needs an edge over Daenerys to rescue Edwyn.**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **mohamud: Unfortunately not. Sorry! And yes, it SO makes her look bad.**

 **krasni: I was thinking along the same lines. A prolonged war between them would be costly and, ultimately, wasteful, leaving both sides depleted.**

 **Hail King Cerion: Just the sentries. After all, it was their job to make sure that that sort of thing didn't happen, and it did. Like Stannis, he needs to enforce discipline in his army, and they need to be more afraid of him than the enemy. Like you said, examples are good. The surviving sentries will be far more motivated to be better at their work.**


	19. Sparrows Take Flight

_**King's Landing…**_

"And how are you enjoying the capital, Joanna?" Visenya asked. She sat at the head of the table, eating breakfast with the sun on her face.

"Very much, Your Grace" she replied as she sat to Visenya's right. "The knights, the pageants; it's everything I could have hoped for."

The girl was little more than a child, not having bled yet. Still, she was very pretty, with blonde hair and bright green eyes. She was the granddaughter of the Warden of the West, Harys Swyft, as well as his only surviving grandchild. The children of his daughter, wed to Kevan Lannister, were all dead, the youngest at the hands of Northmen during the War of Five Kings and the oldest, Lancel, killed when Drakon had claimed the Iron Throne.

Visenya smiled and said "I'm glad that you're happy."

"That makes one of us" her other table guest grumbled.

"You don't enjoy King's Landing, Rodrik?"

The teenager did not reply immediately, cutting off a piece of blood sausage and taking the time to chew it. At fifteen, he was shaping up to be a strong man. Visenya thought that he was handsome, in a harsh, dangerous sort of way. He never smiled, and all he ever seemed to do was pout. He was the only grandchild of Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of the Iron Islands, and had been named after his grandfather. His father and uncle had both died in the Greyjoy Rebellion, and he had been raised by relatives until now.

Rodrik swallowed the bite of sausage and said "Everything feels… wrong here. It's too pretty, too bright. Not like home at all."

Visenya nodded as she ate her custard, washing it down with water. Even when she was not with child, she never cared for the taste of wine.

Joanna looked at her and smiled. "Well, I think it's perfectly lovely, Your Grace."

"You think any old daffodil is lovely, little girl."

"I'm being polite, you greasy Ironborn!"

"Enough" Visenya said forcefully, looking at both of them. "Now, there is no reason why we should fight and ruin such a beautiful morning."

They both returned to their plates. They lived in the Red Keep as royal wards, ostensibly to learn the decorum of court. Their respective grandfathers both owed their positions to Drakon, and their grandchildren's' presence in the capital was a… reminder of that fact, as well as a warning against any potential treason either man might perpetrate. The additional presence of Rodrik Harlaw's cousin in the Kingsguard and Harys Swyft's daughter, Kevan Lannister's widow, being a 'guest' at Riverrun further dissuaded them from betrayal.

Visenya suspected that neither of them would dare cross her brother.

Just then, a servant entered the room. Visenya looked behind her as Ser Eustace stopped the man and heard what he had to say. The servant departed, and the knight walked over to her. "Your Grace, there has been an incident."

An hour later, she found herself approaching the Sept of Baelor. The servants carrying her litter set it down at the base of the steps as she draped her silver hair over one shoulder. She stepped outside, taking the hand offered by Ser Eustace. He and Ser Harras remained by her side, their black armour contrasting with her bright silver gown, as she began climbing the steps. The various Smallfolk along the street, blocked by a line of Goldcloaks, were calling out to her, but she ignored them.

The attack on the brothel was inconsequential, in her mind; she could not care less what happened to a den of lowly whores. Still, its vandalism was a flagrant offense, and the attack of Ser Hugo was unacceptable. He was one of her brother's staunchest supporters, and she could ill afford to let something like this stand.

She stopped halfway up when she saw the twenty men in black wool tunics and chains standing in her way. Many of them wielded cudgels or spiked clubs, and the two Kingsguard took a half step closer to her.

"Let me pass" she said, staring each of the men in the eye. From their attire and lack of shoes, she guessed them to be Sparrows, but these were armed.

"His Holiness is praying" one of them answered.

"His Holiness will make time for me" Visenya retorted, giving him an insincere smile. She took a step forward, but the Sparrows closed ranks. The Kingsguard took a protective step in front of her, placing their hands on their swords. After a moment of intense staring, she said "Ser Harras, Ser Eustace, clear this rabble."

The knights drew their swords, but as they did, the Smallfolk's cries grew louder. Visenya turned around and saw that they were becoming quite animated, raising their arms and shouting. They slowly approached the Sept, only stopping when the Goldcloaks leveled their spears at them.

"All hail the Dragon Queen!"

"Whore!"

"We traded one rotten queen for another!"

"Shame on you!"

"Shame!"

"Brother-fucker!"

"The gods will punish you!"

Visenya pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring. How dare they pass judgement on her? She was wife to the Black Dragon, and none could look down on her and her brother. Through her anger, she found herself wondering just why they were saying such things. No one could have known that she and Drakon were related, which meant that someone was trying to discredit her and her brother, or someone had found out and started talking. Both were more likely.

One thing was clear: it was not safe outside of the Red Keep.

With an angry huff, she started descending the steps. Her two escorts sheathed their swords and followed her, remaining close and serving as a shield against the dangers of the city.

Later, Visenya made her way through the gardens of the Red Keep. Ser Harras followed a step behind, as Ser Eustace and Ser Benedict were on duty protecting her children. She passed by various minor lords and ladies and servants, all of whom stopped and bowed to her as she walked. She, however, paid them no heed, her mind occupied by other matters.

The incident at the Sept of Baelor weighed heavily on her. The High Sparrow, a man who owed his position to her and her brother, had openly attacked the Lord Commander of the City Watch with an army of fanatics that had somehow armed themselves.

Even more troubling was the people shouting at her for laying with her brother. Was it merely rumour, or had someone discovered the truth and spread it like a sickness?

Visenya knew that she had to deal with this problem, but she was not sure of how to proceed. Drakon would have known; he always knew what to do, who to trust, who to punish. As confident as she was, she knew that this problem required help. Many aspects of Westerosi politics were still strange to her, and she needed someone who knew them far better than nearly anyone living, which was why she walked through the garden.

She was looking for a rose. A very old, prickly rose.

Eventually, Visenya came to the little nook of the gardens which was the near-permanent residence of Lady Olenna Tyrell, mother to Mace and grandmother to Margaery and Loras. Drakon's alliance with the Tyrells meant that the old woman was always to be found in the gardens or in the Red Keep.

Olenna was sitting in the sun, and she smirked upon seeing her. "Your Grace. This marks the first and only instance of you coming to visit me."

"Lady Olenna" Visenya said, inclining her head as she politely smiled. Glancing at the lush greenery, she said "The gardens are quite lovely. The soil must be fertile, despite the onset of winter."

"Yes, though not quite as fertile as you, my dear" the old woman quipped.

Visenya looked down at her growing belly and placed a hand on it.

"You might want to consider slowing down at some point. Otherwise, you'll end up with more princes and princesses than you know how to deal with. Given the history of your family, I would advise against having too many children."

The silver-haired woman put on a forced smile, finding herself being quickly annoyed at the elder Tyrell's barbs. "May I sit?"

"Really? And here I was, enjoying this lovely day."

Enough of this, Visenya thought to herself. "Well, forgive me for interrupting your obviously important time" she said, starting to turn around.

Olenna chuckled. "Defeated so easily? My, my, you must have troubles. Come, my dear, sit; you obviously need help, and this might prove to be interesting."

The silver-haired woman nodded, and sat down on a chair which Ser Eustace placed across from the old woman. "The people of this city seem to hate me. Whenever I leave the Red Keep, they gather into mobs and shout all manner of… disgusting lies about me."

"Yes, I've heard the rumours" Olenna said, interlocking her fingers. "Now that the Dragons are back, they once again wed brother to sister. It doesn't exactly help your case to be the only other person in the capital named 'Blackfyre' with silver hair."

"My name is Blackfyre because that is my husband's name" Visenya replied.

"Naturally. Is there… any other reason?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Visenya's expression remained hardened as she replied "No."

"In any case, whether or not these rumours are true, you now sit in a precarious position. The last time rumours spread of a queen bearing her brother's children, it started a war. The people tell themselves these sort of stories because they never see you. You spend all your time here in the Red Keep; to them, you are just the exotic, foreign beauty who rules over them from her castle. Cersei's greatest failing was that she ignored and despised the common folk, and the whole country hated her for it. You'll find it awfully difficult to rule over subjects who spend their time telling stories about a queen they never see."

"So what should I do?"

Olenna smiled. She looked up at Ser Eustace and said "You there, bring some refreshments. This might take a while." When the knight did not move, she asked "Does that helmet prevent you from hearing properly, or do you want us to die of thirst?"

Visenya turned in her chair and looked up at the Kingsguard. "You dare not refuse, Ser."

* * *

 **That finale… holy shit. There were several moments where I just sat there all slack jawed, too stunned to even react. The unfortunate thing is now we have to wait 1-2 years until Season 8 and see how it all ends.**

 **Goddammit.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter for those of you who, like me, want the show to be back now. In my opinion, Season 5 of the show was its poorest. Many of the storylines were absolute garbage, especially…** _ **Dorne**_ **. The best thing to come out of that season, however, was the High Sparrow. Jonathan Pryce did such a fantastic job portraying that character, and when I had the idea to square him off against Visenya while Drakon and the Dragons were away, I just couldn't resist.**

 **This will also allow me to show how things could have played out if Tommen had had any sort of backbone or someone other than Cersei were involved. Visenya, despite being severely outnumbered by a mob of religious fanatics, will never allow herself to fall the way Cersei did.**

 **guest: Well, that's your opinion. I happen to think that the Sparrows were one of the show's better storylines, and the satisfaction I have from watching Cersei finally get her comeuppance is endless.**

 **Mel: Don't worry, he's coming! And yes, I love that dwarf also.**

 **krasni: Astute observations, as always! Yes, his army will be uncomfortable, but they fear/respect Drakon too much to go against him on something like this. In the meantime, they get lots of gold and women to spend the night with, so most of their complaints won't last long. And yeah, Olene is perfectly justified. She did go behind her queen's back along with Daario, but that would never excuse what happened to her. Unfortunately, she was just in the way, and Drakon defended himself. He had no way of knowing she was pregnant.**


	20. Tidings of Death

_**The Eyrie…**_

Jayne placed a hand on her back, supporting herself as she walked. Her belly was now getting to be enormous, and it proved to be a truly great burden to bear. "Forgive me, Lady Waynwood. This child seems to mistake my bladder as a precious toy." The young woman wore a pale white dress with the same style of open sleeves which looped under her arms and connected to a broach that looked like black Dragon clawed hands grasping a bronze orb, reflecting her new House's sigil.

She walked out onto the balcony and sat down across from Anya Waynwood, head of House Waynwood and Lady of Ironoaks.

The old woman smiled with her thin lips as she took a sip of wine. "There is nothing to forgive, Lady Royce. When I was pregnant with my sons, I was walking out of meetings and weddings and tourneys almost every five minutes."

They both chuckled, and Jayne took a bite of lamprey pie. She had invited Lady Waynwood for lunch in order to gauge the woman's mindset. As she was married to the heir of the Warden of the East, it was important that she familiarized herself with the nobility of the Vale, starting with the most powerful lords and working her way down. Her father had once told her that one could not identify one's enemies by waiting for them to move against you.

"Now, I believe you were saying something before I so rudely interrupted" Jayne said with a smirk.

"Ah, yes. Well, none of us were particularly fond of Petyr Baelish. His great-grandfather came from Braavos, and his foreign blood made many uneasy. But then, Tywin Lannister named him as a suitor for Lady Arryn, and it looked like we were going to be stuck with the man. Lady Arryn was always… odd, but she had been in love with him since they were children. A few days after his arrival and their marriage, however, she wound up falling through the Moon Door."

"A few days?" Jayne asked incredulously. "It sounds to me like he killed her."

"We thought so as well" Lady Waynwood said. "Several of us banded together to look into the matter and, hopefully, remove him as Regent of the Vale and get him away from Robin Arryn. We determined that Lady Arryn's death was accidental, but the other matter did not end as we had hoped."

A servant walked over to them and placed trays of food on the table while another refilled the women's goblets.

"What happened?"

"The talks were proceeding well enough, but Ser Lyn Corbray seriously damaged our position by drawing his sword in the heat of the moment."

Jayne allowed herself to scowl at the mention of the man's name.

"I see you have some familiarity with the Captain of the Guard."

The young woman took a sip of water. "More than I would like."

"When he drew his sword, it strengthened Baelish's position in the talks, and we gave him a year to prove himself as Lord of the Vale. Until, that is, your father had him executed."

"He believed it was necessary for the preservation of the realm" Jayne explained.

"Of course."

Taking the time to finish off her pie, Jayne said "It must have been difficult, serving under lieges so… unpredictable."

Lady Waynwood nodded. "Certainly. Lady Arryn forbade any of us from marching to the aid of Robb Stark and the Riverlands in the War of Five Kings, and as I said, none of us trusted Petyr Baelish nor even liked him. But House Waynwood is loyal to the lords of the Vale, first to House Arryn and now to House Royce."

"So you are not disappointed that my father did not choose you as Warden of the East?"

"Not at all. That was his prerogative, and Lord Royce is a fine man for the job."

Jayne nodded, taking a sip of water. She made a mental note that Lady Waynwood could be trusted, or, at the very least, her sense of duty could be trusted. The young woman could count on at least one ally in the Vale.

Just to be certain, a few hours later she met with Cynthea Waynwood, formerly Cynthea Frey, Lady Anya's granddaughter and ward, on the same balcony. As a gesture of goodwill, her father had given a royal decree to have the girl's name changed, otherwise she would have been put to death along with all the other Freys. The girl had just turned fourteen, and though Jayne thought she was a little plump, she was still pretty.

"Would you care for anything more, Cynthea?" Jayne asked.

The girl wiped her mouth with a napkin and replied "No thank you, my lady. That was a delicious meal." Adrya walked over and took their empty dishes; she and Jayne briefly made eye contact, and the handmaiden smiled a little before walking away. "Though, I'm not quite sure why you invited me to lunch with you. I'm no one special."

"Nonsense" Jayne said, waving the statement away. "I'm still adjusting to life here in the Eyrie, and having lunch with interesting people helps pass the time. Besides, my child seems to be ravenous for kidney pie and smoked ham!"

They both laughed.

Jayne gazed out at the mountains for a moment. "I understand your grandmother is currently trying to arrange for you to be married to Bodrin Wydman. I hear he's shaping up to be a handsome young lord."

The mention of his name brought a wistful smile to Cynthea's face.

"I suppose it's every little girl's dream, isn't it? To find that handsome lord or knight or prince who will come riding on a magnificent steed to take you away to his castle and make you his wife." Cynthea's smile widened, and Jayne briefly glanced at the floor, lamenting that her own marriage had fallen short of that childhood ideal.

"Bodrin is handsome, my lady" the girl said. "He's kind and honourable and strong."

"He sounds like the perfect white knight. Adrya?" Her handmaiden walked over to their table, depositing two letters and coming to stand nearby.

"What are those?"

Jayne took the one letter and replied "This is a letter from Mace Tyrell, the Hand of the King." She showed Cynthea the Hand's seal on the wax. "In agreement with the Master of Coin, he has authorized you to receive a much larger dowry. A tempting lure for your shining champion."

The girl's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "My… my lady, thank you! Thank you so much!"

Jayne smiled. "I would only ask a small favour in return for this."

"Yes, anything!"

"I want you to keep me apprised of your grandmother's actions: who she meets with, what deals she makes, and anything I might want to know."

Cynthea's jubilant smile lessened. "I… I don't feel entirely comfortable with that, my lady. My grandmother has done so much for me, and I would hate to betray that trust by spying on her."

"I understand" Jayne said, nodding. "If that is the case, then I will have to send this letter, instead." She placed the one letter on the table and grabbed the other one, showing that it also had the Hand's seal on it. "This is also from Mace Tyrell. It is addressed to Lady Arrei Donniger, telling her that Bodrin Wydman will marry her daughter Elyse."

The girl's expression went from concerned to panicked, the thought of losing her intended playing out in her head.

In truth, the second letter was blank. Since she had moved to the Eyrie, Jayne had maintained regular contact with her family, and she included Rona in that group. Rona had been her mother's oldest friend, and had helped raise and teach her and her brothers. The older woman had offered to use her little birds to spy on the lords of the Vale for her, but Jayne had refused, citing her need to stand on her own two feet. Instead, she had asked Rona for a favour, and that favour had materialized into two letters bearing the seal of the Hand of the King. The letter promising Cynthea a greater dowry was written and signed, while the other one was blank.

The young woman found herself wondering just how Rona had convinced Mace Tyrell to go along with the plan. Had he even known what he was agreeing to?

Growing up, her father had told her that in order to manipulate others into doing what you wanted, you had to offer two hands, one with an olive branch and one with a dagger. While he was more inclined to offer the dagger first, Jayne's first instinct was to offer the olive branch while merely mentioning the dagger in her other hand.

Putting the second letter down, Jayne took Cynthea's hands in hers and said "I don't want to send this. I want us to be friends. Would you like that?"

Cynthea kept her gaze on the letter that threatened her happiness and nodded.

Jayne smiled. "I would like that, too. All I am asking is for you to write to me about your grandmother. No one will be hurt, and this is ultimately for her own good. I want you to be happy, Cynthea. Will you help me?"

Eventually, the girl nodded.

Jayne gave her the first letter, smiling as Cynthea stood up. "When your grandmother asks about that letter, tell her that I gave it to you as a gesture of goodwill towards your family." With that, the girl left, leaving Jayne's room and closing the door. The young woman breathed a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair. Adrya stepped over to her and started massaging her neck and shoulders, causing Jayne to groan appreciatively. "Am I a bad person?"

"Of course not, m'lady" Adrya replied.

"Really? Because I just threatened Cynthea's happiness so I could have her spy on her grandmother."

"The fact that you wonder if you're a bad person means that you're not a bad person. What matters is that you gave her the happiness she wanted, and like you said, no one will get hurt if she merely sends you information."

Jayne smirked. "Sometimes, I feel like I don't deserve you. Would you kindly draw me a bath? I need to relax."

"Of course, m'lady" Adrya said. She gave the young woman's shoulders a firm squeeze, then walked out the door to get some water.

Jayne stood, placing a hand on her back to support herself, and walked over to the bed. A minute later, the door opened, and she said "That was quick." She turned, and saw that it was not Adrya. Standing by the door was a young man, no older than seventeen, wearing simple clothes. "Oh. Who are you?"

"Malcom, m'lady" he replied.

"And what do you want?"

He nervously glanced out into the hall, tapping his fingers against his leg. "I… I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"It's about you and your family. Someone wants to kill you."

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Edric felt his head flash with pain as Masyn Tanner's wooden sword struck him in the face. He grunted, touching his left cheek. There would probably be a bruise, but he had told the other man not to go easy on him. If the son of the Black Dragon was ever going to overcome his handicap, then he had to endure any sort of pain or hardship along the way.

"Keep me off your left" Masyn said, tapping his wooden sword against Edric's left arm. "Since you can only see to your right, then that is where I need to be. Force your opponent to go where you want to and keep them at a disadvantage."

Edric nodded, tightening his grip on his wooden sword.

He made the first move, aiming a thrust at Masyn's chest. The other man sidestepped the attack, and Edric followed up with several more strikes. Winterfell's Master-at-arms blocked each of them, quickly retaliating with an overhead chop. The son of the Black Dragon held his sword up and blocked it. Remembering what he had just been told, he pushed his opponent's sword to the right and used his left shoulder to shove the other man to the right, where he could properly see him.

Edric cracked his neck, then advanced. Masyn blocked his strikes, but he was still doing better than he was before. Ducking beneath a slash, he struck the other man's leg with his wooden sword, causing him to kneel.

Feeling the rush of victory, Edric held his weapon against Masyn's throat.

"Not bad, my lord."

Noticing movement from the corner of his eye, he looked up and saw Sansa walking through the courtyard with Brienne following a step behind. She saw him, and smiled. Edric smiled as well, feeling like the two of them had been growing closer over the last few weeks. Even though they were husband and wife, married for politics rather than love, he knew in his heart that what he felt for Sansa was real, more real than anything in his entire life.

Suddenly, Masyn shoved his arm aside and wrapped his arms around Edric, tackling him onto the snow. He grabbed his weapon from the ground and held it to the young man's throat. "You should never let yourself get distracted in the middle of a fight."

Groaning from the impact, Edric replied "I'll remember that for tomorrow."

With that, the larger man stood and offered his hand. The Lord of Winterfell took it, wiping off the snow once he was on his feet. Belatedly, he noticed that it was freezing out in the open. The snow gently fell as a cold breeze blew through, making the hairs on his neck stand straighter than freshly carved planks. He supposed that an intense sparring session was one way of keeping warm in the midst of the colder northern temperatures.

After going inside and warming himself up with a bath, Edric was approached by Maester Pyne. "My lord, your presence is required in the great hall. Jon Umber has arrived with a small retinue."

Nodding to the older man, he made his way to the great hall. Sansa was already there, sitting at the high table. The young Blackfyre smiled at his wife, then sat down. He nodded to one of the guards at the far end of the hall, who opened the door. In stepped one of the biggest men Edric had ever seen; from his lessons with Sansa, he knew that the Umbers were a fierce Northern House, and the men were often some of the strongest and largest in all of Westeros. 'Smalljon' Umber, as he was known, lived up to that reputation, and his massive physical frame was topped by a hard face with a magnificent beard.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Umber" Edric greeted. "What can I do for you?"

The large man did not speak for several moments, seeming to size up the young Blackfyre. He then turned to Sansa and said "Lady Stark, my condolences for what happened to your brother. The cunts who tried to take him from Last Hearth died, but so did he."

Edric looked at his wife, and he could tell she was struggling not to break her ladylike expression. "Thank you, Lord Umber."

The large man then looked down at Edric and said "The bastard Jon Snow led an army of Wildlings past the Wall. We're farther north than any of you fuckers; Wildlings come down, we always have to fight them first. I like fighting Wildlings. Been doing it all my life. But there are too many of them for us to beat back alone. The colder it gets, the farther south those goat-fuckers roam. Won't take them long to get here."

Edric and Sansa shared a grave look. He knew that Jon was her brother, and even though they never got along in the past, he was still her family. The last thing he wanted was for her to lose any more of her family, but he knew that the gods, if they even existed, would not make it easy on him.

Looking back at Smalljon, he said "We must respond to this."

"Aye. So what are you going to do about it, boy?"

Edric shifted in his seat, pursing his lips.

"If we do nothing, then they'll come down and raid whatever they damn well please. It won't just be my lands that suffer, but yours and everyone's."

"And you think that's what I want? You think I want my people to suffer?"

The Smalljon hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Honestly? I don't give two shits what you want. I'd rather be talking to your father; he gets things done. Instead, I'm forced to talk to his lapdog."

"You forget yourself, Lord Umber" Sansa told him forcefully. "This man is your liege lord. You should speak to him with respect."

Edric smiled at her, then said "You forget that I fought in the Second War of Conquest. I fought and broke the Lannisters at Riverrun, and I helped annihilate the Boltons."

"From what I hear, your brother came up with the plan at Riverrun and took that Lannister prick's head. And Ramsay Bolton, the cunt that took your eye? Your father was the one to kill him."

"I fought and killed Roose Bolton in single—"

"Your horse killed Roose Bolton" Smalljon corrected. "From where I'm standing, you haven't done a single thing worth mentioning without the help of your family or your father's Dragons. For whatever reason, your father named you Warden of the North, so that's why I have to talk to you."

Edric stood and braced his hands on the table. "Then listen well, Lord Umber, for I am the Warden of the North. My father entrusted me to lead and protect the North, and that is what I'll do. I will ride to Castle Black and speak with Jon Snow about this. But if I can't convince him to send the Wildlings back, then I will call my banners, ride north, and throw them back over the Wall by force."

He glanced at Sansa, and saw the worried expression on her face. He suspected the outcome of the coming weeks would decide the fate of the North. No matter what, though, Edric would never let anyone take his wife or his new home away from him.

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **krasni: Not in the next few chapters, unfortunately. But believe me, he will feature heavily in the next part of the story, as indicated by this chapter.**

 **Hail King Cerion: I'm glad you're liking that storyline! As for who could have found out… you'll just have to stay tuned. ;)**


	21. To Rescue a Dragon

_**Meereen…**_

Samwell kept a grip on Brightroar, sheathed at his back, as he and several of his soldiers quickly moved across the ground. He was garbed in his dull black plate armour, looking out through the visor of his greathelm, which resembled a lion's face. Nymeria moved ahead of them, her naturally superior hunter's vision guiding their way through the nighttime darkness. As they were moving in front of Meereen's walls, the use of torches would have given away their position.

Having a pet Direwolf never ceased to be useful.

It had been a day since King Drakon had brokered an agreement with the Masters, who had provided information in regards to the city's layout and weak points. His Grace had commanded Samwell to enter the city along with twenty good men, along with Ser Prester of the Kingsguard. They were to enter the Great Pyramid and rescue his son and Lord Tarly. Only then would he launch an attack, for fear of his son's safety if he were still held captive.

Eventually, they arrived at their destination. Having skirted around the city, they came to a large sewer grate that emptied into the waters of Slaver's Bay. Samwell walked over to the grate as one of his men pulled down on the counterweight, using all his strength to lift it up.

Once the opening was clear, he stepped through, followed closely by Nymeria and the others. They proceeded to light torches, banishing the darkness around them.

They spent several minutes wading through knee-high water, holding their torches aloft. After that came a set of stone stairs, and as Samwell and his men climbed them, the torchlight suddenly revealed a number of golden masks that resembled the Harpy of Slaver's Bay. Several of his soldiers visibly recoiled and gripped their swords, but the stocky man kept his nerves.

Nymeria growled at the masked men, and they appeared nervous at the sight of such a large creature.

"Come" one of them said in Valyrian. Samwell had studied just enough of the language to understand a few words and phrases. He guessed that these were the 'Sons of the Harpy' they had been told about.

He and Ser Prester exchanged a glance, then started to move.

They followed the masked men through a series of tunnels and catacombs until they emerged into the streets of Meereen, dousing their torches before walking into the open. Braziers on top of buildings and torches along certain intersections provided enough light to see, and they quietly filed through streets and alleys, wary of attack. It appeared that that everyone was indoors, and Samwell guessed that only the Unsullied and Second Sons would be allowed out in the open to enforce a curfew. Cities under siege tended to tear themselves apart eventually; he had seen it before countless times.

Suddenly, the masked men gestured Samwell and his men into an alley. They hurriedly complied, crouching low and staying very still as sounds of marching feet could be heard coming from nearby.

Soon enough, a group of Unsullied came into view, maintaining perfect formation as they marched in step with one another. They moved as one, traversing the street with spears and shields in hand. One of the Sons of the Harpy started to stand up, but Samwell stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He pointed up at the Great Pyramid, and the masked man growled in annoyance.

"You have to wait for kill" he said, trying his best to remember his few lessons in Valyrian. The other Sons of the Harpy snorted in amusement, but they understood.

Once the Unsullied patrol was past, they stood up and continued moving towards their target. Eventually, after avoiding detection, they came within sight of the Great Pyramid's entrance. Of course, it was guarded, and while there were only four of the leather-armoured eunuchs guarding it, Samwell was concerned that one of them would raise the alarm if they attacked openly.

Before he could think of a plan, however, the Sons of the Harpy stood and ran out of the shadows. With knives in hand, they came within sight of the Unsullied and started spewing insults in Valyrian before running down a side street.

Two of the Unsullied leveled their spears and chased after them, leaving two at the entrance.

Grumbling at the lack of discipline of their 'allies', Samwell gestured to two of his men, who unslung crossbows from their backs. They loaded their weapons, took aim, and fired. The two bolts pierced the eunuchs in the throat, silencing them and nearly killing them instantly. As the bodies dropped, Samwell and the others quickly entered the Great Pyramid.

The stocky man and the knight of the Kingsguard led the way, with Nymeria following close behind while the soldiers kept wary gazes, their hands on their swords.

* * *

 _ **In the pyramid dungeons…**_

Edwyn winced a little as the door to his cell opened, bathing the darkened space with bright torchlight. Holding a hand over his eyes, he peeked in between his fingers and saw Ser Barristan stepping inside. The door closed behind him, and the young man lowered his hand.

"Here" the old man said, offering him a bowl of food. Edwyn glanced warily at it, and the knight said "It's not poisoned. You have my word."

Remembering how highly his father thought of Ser Barristan, Edwyn took the bowl and started scooping food into his mouth with his hand. Considering the quality of the 'food' he had been served the last several weeks, not counting the feast Tyrion Lannister tried to bribe him with, it was a delicacy.

"Thank you" he said in between bites.

"Your welcome" Ser Barristan said. "Your father told me about you, once. It must have been four years ago. We met in King's Landing after Joffrey had dismissed me from the Kingsguard. I thought he'd died twenty years ago during the Sack of King's Landing, but there he was… the boy I had taught how to fight, how to be a man. He was born from tragedy and death; all I ever wanted was for him to know happiness, to take back what the world had taken from him."

Edwyn stopped eating, staring at the old man. His father had told them little about the circumstances of his birth and his early life in the Red Keep, and whenever he or his siblings would ask him about that part of his life, he had always avoided talking about it at length. The young man knew that he was dealing with a lot of pain.

The old knight smiled. "So when he told me that he had married and fathered children, I was overjoyed. He told me all about your sister, and you and your brother. You remind me of him."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes" he said, smiling. "From the time he could walk, your father wanted nothing more than to become a knight. He used to take wooden sticks and spoons, challenging every servant and guard he could find to a duel once I told him that knights fight duels."

Edwyn chuckled. "That reminds me of my brother and me. We used to spend almost every waking hour sparring with each other." His smile lessened as he stared at a wall. "Being the Lord of Highgarden means I don't get to see him anymore."

Ser Barristan looked at him for a moment. "Your father loved Rhaegar Targaryen like a brother. They grew up together. He's been haunted by Rhaegar's death ever since."

"It sounds like he was happy back then. Before the rebellion."

"He was. As much as he dreamed of being a knight, he never enjoyed killing. He and Rhaegar had that in common. He loved to read; I lost count of the number of times I found him in the libraries of the Red Keep, buried in a mountain of books. He always came back to his family's history. I suspect that he felt lost. His father and mother were both dead, and his link to the past died with them. I tried my best to teach him, to give him a reason to look forward."

As Edwyn finished his last mouthful of food, he stared at the old knight. His father had spoken of his mentor with nothing but absolute respect and admiration. He loved him like a father, and Edwyn was coming to realize that Ser Barristan loved him just as much.

The old man then said "Your father is a good man, at heart. But he is plagued with demons, demons that have haunted him since the day he was born." He then pounded his fist on the door, and it opened. "Even after everything that's happened, I still believe that Drakon is the boy I trained, the boy I raised." As he turned to leave, Edwyn thought he could hear the old man mutter "The boy I love."

With that, the cell door was closed and locked, leaving the young man in darkness once more.

* * *

 _ **A few minutes later…**_

After rounding a corner, they saw an attractive, dark-skinned woman with curly hair being escorted by a pair of Unsullied as she walked down the corridor. As they hurried over to her, Samwell gave a short whistle. Nymeria charged forward as the Unsullied turned around, leaping through the air and tackling one of them to the ground. The curly haired woman shrieked as the Direwolf tore his throat out, and Samwell drew Brightroar as he faced the other one. After swatting the eunuch's shield aside, he brought his weapon down and sliced him from face to groin. The strength of the blow was enough to knock his corpse to the ground.

Two of his soldiers held the woman against a wall, and one of them held a hand over her mouth. Samwell lifted the visor of his helmet and said "Do not scream." She nodded, and he gestured to the soldier. The man removed his hand, and Samwell asked "What is your name?"

The woman glanced warily at them, obviously terrified of Nymeria, then replied "Missandei."

"Missandei, I am Samwell Royce. I am here for Edwyn Blackfyre and Randyll Tarly. Do you know where they are being held?"

"Yes."

"I need you to take us there. You will not be harmed, you have my word."

Her eyes flicked down to the dead Unsullied.

"They were soldiers" he explained. "You are not. There is no honour in killing you." After a moment's hesitation, she nodded.

With her leading the way, they descended into the pyramid's lower levels. Any Unsullied they came across were in groups of one to four, and Samwell guessed that most of them were out in the city, maintaining order in the face of the siege. In any case, they were swiftly dealt with, and they soon came to the dungeons. While one soldier kept a firm grip on Missandei's arms, Samwell and Ser Prester led the others in opening the cells.

Many were empty, while others contained imprisoned Sons of the Harpy. As the Meereenese rebels were freed, the stocky man unlocked the last cell on the left. He opened the door and smiled as he saw Edwyn Blackfyre standing inside the cell, looking rather haggard and dirty.

"Samwell!" he cried, obviously pleased to see a familiar face as he shakily got to his feet. "I assume father sent you."

"He did" the stocky man replied. "Now come; it's time to get you out of here." After returning Edwyn and Randyll Tarly's weapons to them, they all made their way out of the dungeons. A scant few minutes later, they could hear bells starting to ring from higher up. Cursing under his breath, Samwell said "It appears that we have been discovered."

Several shouts could be heard from nearby, and a group of Unsullied, along with several Second Sons, came running around a corner at the opposite end of the corridor, their weapons drawn.

Samwell drew Brightroar and told his men "Take Lord Blackfyre and Lord Tarly and get them out of here!"

"Samwell—" Edwyn started to say.

"Go!"

The young man pursed his lips, but nodded. He and the others ran down the corridor to their right, while the stocky man lowered his visor and readied himself for a fight. As the soldier holding onto Missandei took a step back, Ser Prester came to stand beside him, drawing his own sword.

"I would remind you, Ser, that you are sworn to defend the king and his family."

"Aye" the Northerner said. "But I would never leave a man behind, especially a man who's claimed the loyalty of a Direwolf."

Nymeria growled at the oncoming enemies, baring her fangs as her entire body tensed. She then launched herself at one of the Second Sons, and the fighting commenced.

Ser Prester threw himself into the fray, displaying his prodigious swordsmanship as he cut down three Unsullied. Samwell chose to attack one of the Sellswords, aiming a horizontal slice at the man's throat as he moved to block. At the last second, he pulled back with his greatsword, then thrust the Valyrian Steel blade through his opponent's head, killing him instantly. Just as another Sellsword tried to attack, Nymeria clamped her jaws on the man's leg, eliciting a cry of pain. Samwell took advantage of the distraction and split his head in two with Brightroar.

Glancing to his left, he saw Ser Prester being encircled by a group of Unsullied. One of them thrust a spear at him, but he dodged, grabbed the weapon with his left hand, then struck with an upwards slash, cutting through leather and skin. The Northerner then spun on his heel as another eunuch tried to attack from behind and cleanly beheaded him.

Samwell then dispatched a pair of enemies. He suddenly heard a high-pitched cry, and turned to see Nymeria standing against a wall, holding up her left front leg as it bled while one of the Second Sons loomed over her.

His heart thundering in his chest with battle rage, he pierced the man's side with his greatsword, shoving the tip of the blade clean through the skin on the other side.

The stocky man withdrew his blade, letting the corpse fall as he moved to stand in front of Nymeria. Anytime someone tried to attack, he would fend them off, never standing more than a step away from the injured Direwolf. Several feet away, he could see Ser Prester moving so fast that his eyes could barely keep up; the Kingsguard was cutting through his enemies with the ease of carving a cake, and the blood spattered on his sword and black armour proved as much.

Just as Samwell cut the arm off of a Second Son, the pyramid shook. They all froze, and a moment later, a monstrous roar could be heard, even this far down in the pyramid.

Samwell smirked behind his helmet as he attacked with Brightroar.

* * *

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Vgu: Thanks! Hope you like this one.**

 **Agent of Hydra: And I can't wait to show you more. Hail Hydra!**


	22. Honour to the End

_**Outside Meereen…**_

Drakon stood on the cliff above his army's camp, staring out at Meereen as night started to surrender to day. He tightly gripped the handles of his twin Valyrian Steel swords, Blackfyre and Dark Sister, as he waited. It had been hours since Samwell had entered the city, and the muscular man was becoming anxious.

As much as he trusted Samwell, he also knew that infiltrating Daenerys' capital to rescue his son was a dangerous proposition, given that there was an army of men utterly devoted to her standing in their way.

Ser Loras calmly stood beside him, his helmet in the crook of his elbow. "It shouldn't be long now, Your Grace."

"Have you suddenly become clairvoyant, Ser Loras?"

The former heir to Highgarden replied "No, Your Grace. I meant no offense."

"I appreciate the effort, but nothing is ever certain. There is no guarantee that any of us will live to see the next morning, or be in the same place that we were, just as there is no guarantee that my son will live to escape his confinement."

The Lord Commander of his Kingsguard said nothing, for they both knew what fate would befall the Mother of Dragons and her people if Edwyn did not survive.

Suddenly, they could hear the sound of bells being rung deep in the heart of the city, where the Great Pyramid was. Drakon's blood froze in his veins, and he instantly turned around and nearly ran over to where Rhaegon and Maelion were lounging near his tent. Ser Loras and Ser Balon struggled to keep up as his crimson cape flowed like water behind him, and once Dickon Brune brought his winged helm, Drakon put it on before mounting the silver and gold Dragon.

"Your Grace, please!" the Knight of the Flowers said. "We cannot protect you if you enter the city alone!"

"Once I have my son, I will return" Drakon said. "When I do, launch the attack. Meereen will fall when Edwyn is back with me, where he belongs." He then placed a gauntleted hand on Rhaegon's neck and said " _Sovetis_!" The magnificent creature gave a roar as he and his sibling crawled across the ground. They proceeded to launch themselves into the air from the cliff, flapping their golden wings and ascending high above the city. They soared through the air like a pair of gods about to swoop down and deliver their fiery wrath upon their enemies.

Soon enough, they came to the Great Pyramid, and Drakon directed his mount to land on the side with the balcony. Rhaegon let loose a thunderous roar, then lowered his massive head onto the balcony, crushing the stone railing, and Drakon dismounted, hopping off of his mount's neck.

He made his way inside the pyramid's council chamber, drawing his twin swords. As Blackfyre was a bastard sword, it was longer than the average blade, offering greater reach, while Dark Sister was of a regular length and more slender, better suited to a woman's grip.

Still, both weapons were deadlier than any other while in Drakon's hands.

A pair of Unsullied came rushing at him from around the corner, bringing their spears to bear. Taking a step back, the muscular man brought both of his blades down and moved the spears so that their tips missed him. He then shoved one of the eunuchs aside with his shoulder and stabbed the other through the heart with Dark Sister before decapitating the first man with both swords.

Drakon made his way out of the council chamber as Rhaegon flew off to await his call. As the alarm bells kept ringing, he cut down anyone who tried to bar his way, leaving a trail of corpses behind. Eventually, he rounded a corner, and stopped.

At the other end of the corridor was Daenerys Targaryen.

The silver-haired girl had been walking his way, but froze upon seeing him. She was flanked by several Unsullied, a pair of Dothraki, a bearded Sellsword with an Arakh, and Ser Barristan. The eunuchs moved in front of the others and formed up, leveling their spears at the muscular man. Drakon, however, paid them no mind. Instead, he looked at the last Targaryen, Rhaegar's only surviving kin. He then shifted his gaze to Ser Barristan, his mentor and father figure. The two men shared a mournful expression, both of them knowing that this was inevitable.

The two Dothraki moved around the Unsullied and shouted as they charged him, bringing their Arakhs to bear. One tried to slash at his throat, but Drakon blocked the horse-lord's weapon with Dark Sister as he promptly disemboweled him with Blackfyre.

As his guts spilled onto the floor, his companion rolled across the floor, coming behind the muscular man. He then stood and attempted to strike his midsection, but Drakon's black plate armour handily blocked the attack. Drakon quickly stabbed him through the back with Blackfyre and through the front with Dark Sister.

"Protect the queen!" one of the Unsullied shouted in the bastardized Valyrian of Slaver's Bay as half of the group advanced.

Drakon advanced on them, bringing his twin Valyrian Steel blades to bear as he unleashed the Dragon on them. He impaled one, and then beheaded another, and just as he disemboweled and cut open the other two, his left shoulder flared with pain as a stiletto, its handle resembling a naked woman, pierced between two plates. The muscular man growled just as the bearded Sellsword rushed at him. As they fought, he noted that the other man was quick, certainly a capable warrior. However, he was no match for the Black Dragon, who blocked his weapon with the back of his gauntlet before smashing his helm into the other man's face, knocking him out.

He pulled the stiletto from his shoulder and dropped it on the ground, turning to face Daenerys and the rest of her guards.

Ser Barristan was there to greet him. The older man came to stand in front of Drakon as the silver-haired girl and the other Unsullied backed away. "Let me through, Ser Barristan" he said, hoping with all his heart that it would not have to come to a fight.

Part of him was not even sure he could win. Part of him did not want to.

"I'm sorry, Drakon" the old knight said, shaking his head. "But I am compelled to protect my queen. Even from you."

"This never would have happened if she had not wrongfully imprisoned my son."

"You could have chosen to negotiate, to peacefully resolve the situation. But instead, you brought an army to our gates and declared war against Daenerys Stormborn."

Drakon pursed his lips. "I have lost too much in my life, Ser Barristan. I will never again lose the people I love. If I have to burn cities to ash or kill anyone who stands in my way, then so be it."

"Please, I beg you, do not let yourself turn into the monster your father was."

"My father is the only reason I live."

"You only live through the grace of King Aerys!" Ser Barristan said, taking a step towards him. "I fought your father, Drakon. I knew the kind of man he was. They named him 'the Monstrous' because of his deformity, but it was his bloodthirst and his savagery that truly earned him the name. He murdered his own cousin to become the leader of the Golden Company. You do not have to be like him; you have the power to end this."

Drakon clenched his jaw so tight that it quickly became sore. "Get out of my way."

The older man sighed. "You leave me no choice." He drew his sword, staring hard at him as he entered into a ready stance.

The muscular man nodded. He sheathed Dark Sister and removed his helm, dropping it on the floor before he unclasped his crimson cape. The two men stood still as statues, staring at each other and wondering who would be the victor. Drakon was the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, but Ser Barristan was the greatest warrior of the last century.

With a nod, student and teacher lunged at each other.

Their swords clanged as the blades collided, creating a harsh, yet beautiful, ballad as two of the world's finest warriors fought one another. Drakon opted to maximize Blackfyre's reach, trying to keep his distance from Ser Barristan and waiting for his aged reflexes to wane. In response, the old knight continually advanced in a blur of slashes and thrusts, forcing Drakon to back away.

He suddenly bumped into a wall, and his mentor seized the initiative, aiming a slash at Drakon's throat. The muscular man blocked it easily enough, but almost quicker than he could see, the older man brought his blade back and managed to cut his leg between two plates.

Drakon grunted, shoving him back as he stepped away from the wall.

He chided himself for believing that Ser Barristan's prowess would diminish with age; the older man always was one of the greatest fighters who had ever lived, and he bore such a flame within him that nothing could smother it. Deciding that he would be unable to keep his mentor at a distance, Drakon knew he had to overcome experience and speed with strength. Ser Barristan lunged at him, and their blades clanged again and again.

Ser Barristan had once told him that a sword was only as good as the man who wielded it. The finest blade ever forged could be nothing but a sharpened toothpick in the wrong hands. That was why Blackfyre, the sword of kings and the namesake of his House, was equally matched with an otherwise normal steel sword.

Drakon brought his sword down in a diagonal slash, only to be blocked by Ser Barristan's weapon. He then ducked beneath a horizontal slash and blocked a second strike, using his prodigious strength to shove the other man's sword back.

His mentor quickly aimed a thrust at his shoulder, but Drakon sidestepped the attack and brought his sword down with enough force to knock it from the other man's hands.

The muscular man could have ended it right there; he could have stepped forward and plunged his weapon into the old knight's heart. Instead, he took several steps back, allowing Ser Barristan to pick up his weapon. With a nod, the two men resumed their duel, neither one showing any signs of weakening. At any point, Drakon could have drawn his Valyrian Steel dagger and disabled his opponent with a quick cut to the arm or leg or wrist, but he never even considered that course. He wasn't even wearing armour, while Drakon wore full plate, an imbalance that would have normally offered a swift victory.

Ser Barristan was the most honourable man Drakon had ever known. While he had been drowning in the misery and sorrow of this world, rarely fighting with honour the way he had been taught, he considered it his duty to fight the proper way against his mentor.

At the very least, he could be honourable in this moment.

With a grunt, Drakon lunged at Ser Barristan, proceeding to hammer at him with a series of strikes that would have completely bowled over lesser men. As it was, the older man was forced back, his strength nowhere near as great. He brought his sword up to block Drakon's, but the Black Dragon angled his blade and drove it forward, slicing his mentor in the shoulder.

He then took a step back, and when Ser Barristan thrust with his weapon, Drakon caught the blade with his left gauntlet, wasting no time in slashing his mentor in the thigh.

Ser Barristan grunted, falling to his knees and clutching his bleeding thigh.

The muscular man looked down at his mentor, clenching his jaw tightly for fear of crying. "I'm sorry, Ser Barristan" he said. "I never wanted any of this."

The old man smiled. "I know, my boy. Though I never had children of my own, I think of you as the son I might have had in another life. Though I was bound by my king's command to foster you, I became bound by love more than duty. I taught you how to fight, how to carry yourself with honour; despite everything that has happened, I am proud of the man you became. You were born from tragedy and death, but you never allowed yourself to be consumed by grief." Ser Barristan looked into his eyes and said "I love you, Drakon Blackfyre." He then stood, grimacing, as he picked up his sword. "I am a knight."

Feeling his jaw quiver, Drakon said "And you shall die a knight."

He then advanced on his opponent, attacking with a series of quick strikes that the other man could barely block. The muscular man shoved Ser Barristan's sword aside with enough strength to turn the old man around. Presented with his back, Drakon did not strike, refusing to act like the Kingslayer. Instead, he placed a hand on Ser Barristan's shoulder and turned him back around.

He then plunged Blackfyre into the old man's chest.

This time, Drakon's willpower cracked, and hot tears began to run down his face as he held his mentor in his arms. The old knight, gasping for breath in his final moments, reached up and cupped his cheek. He smiled, and then his hand fell as his body became limp. Ser Barristan breathed his last breath.

The muscular man gritted his teeth in anger, then tilted his head back and roared in agony.

Sheathing Blackfyre and replacing his winged helm, Drakon carefully took Ser Barristan's body in his arms. He looked down the corridor, where Daenerys and her Unsullied stood, and saw that the silver-haired girl's mouth was agape at the outcome of their duel.

The two of them shared a long, hard look, both blaming the other for the old knight's death with tears in their eyes. With that, Drakon turned around and left Daenerys behind.

Retracing his steps, he walked over the corpses he had left behind and returned to the pyramid's council chamber. Walking onto the balcony, he carefully laid Ser Barristan's body down before taking his Dragon Horn and giving a single bellow with it. Not a moment later, a pair of roars sounded in response as Rhaegon and Maelion flew towards him. The silver Dragon landed in front of him, laying his head down and allowing Drakon to mount him.

With a command, he bid the scaled creature to fly.

He circled above the Great Pyramid, desperately searching for Edwyn and Samwell. For several minutes, there was nothing, but then he spotted a group of soldiers coming through the pyramid's front entrance. Drakon brought Rhaegon to land on a nearby structure and cried out "Edwyn!" as he scanned the men's faces.

"Father!" his son shouted in response, waving his arm.

Drakon breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that all he had done was not in vain. Beside Edwyn stood Randyll Tarly, their guards, and the soldiers Samwell had led into Meereen, but the stocky man and his Direwolf were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Ser Prester. "Where are Samwell and Ser Prester?"

Edwyn glanced back at the entrance. "They stayed behind to cover our escape. We waited as long as we could, but there was no sign of them."

Just then, several shouts could be heard from nearby. Rhaegon and Maelion growled as they turned their heads, and Drakon saw a number of Unsullied running down the streets, towards Edwyn and his group. The muscular man told his mount " _Dracarys_." Rhaegon bathed one of the streets in fire, incinerating one of the groups of Unsullied as the rest reached the others.

Drakon could see the Reach and Stormlands soldiers being forced back by the tight formations of the eunuch soldiers. Several of them tried to attack, but were impaled by spears. The muscular man could not risk having his Dragons attack with fire, for Edwyn could be caught up in the blaze.

Suddenly, out of nearby alleys, at least a dozen men or more wearing golden Harpy masks emerged and charged the Unsullied from the rear.

Caught between two groups, the eunuch soldiers were quickly dispatched.

Directing the two Dragons to move down to the ground, Drakon said "Edwyn, get on!" His son promptly climbed onto Rhaegon's back, as did Randyll Tarly. Just then, the muscular man noticed someone coming out of the pyramid. Samwell came onto the street. Ser Prester soon followed, and both men were covered in blood they must have earned from their escape. A third man, a soldier, slowly backed out of the pyramid, holding a knife to the throat of an attractive, curly haired woman as several more Unsullied cautiously followed. "Samwell, get on!"

The stocky man and the Kingsguard somewhat nervously approached Maelion. The bronze Dragon had known both men for his entire life, and he promptly lowered his wing so they could climb onto his back as more Unsullied and Second Sons approached. The soldier holding onto the woman released her, but just as he turned around, a spear pierced him through the back, killing him.

As the Dragons were unable to carry the soldiers, Drakon told them "Make sure to kill as many of them as you can before you die!" Daenerys' forces quickly rushed the soldiers and the Sons of the Harpy, and the outcome was certain.

With that, he bid the Dragons to fly, leaving the Great Pyramid behind.

* * *

 **Unfortunately, we must bid adieu to the brave and honourable Ser Barristan Selmy. Goodnight, old soldier; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.**

 **Like many, I was unsatisfied with Barristan's fate on the show. They killed off an amazing character, and the way they did it was shameful. For this story, I obviously had to keep him alive, as his relationship with Drakon provided fertile ground for any confrontations the two might have.**

 **As the author, I have a certain amount of sympathy for my characters, especially Drakon. He's not completely evil, but like Barristan told Edwyn, he's been plagued with demons since the day he was born. People like Tywin Lannister forced him to become this ruthless, conquering ruler, much in the same way the Lannisters/Freys forced Arya to become a cold, unforgiving assassin. But in this instance, he has the chance to conduct himself with honour, to fight as Ser Barristan would want him to. And I think that this sort of death is something Barristan would have wanted. We know that the last thing he wants is to rot away in some keep by the sea; he's lived his entire life as a knight, and what better death is there than to die for a ruler and a cause you believe in?**

 **P.S. Did any of you sense some… familiarities in that hallway scene? I'll give you a hint: it involves another guy dressed in black with a cape and a sword.**

 **krasni: I understand where you're coming from. My view is that while she is brave, she isn't the kind of person who would sacrifice herself in that way. After all, a massive wolf just tore apart her escort, and armed soldiers are holding her hostage. She's afraid, but she also figures that she can lead them deep into the pyramid and maybe get them encircled by Daenerys' forces. She wouldn't be one to try to stab her captors or die pointlessly.**

 **Hail King Cerion: That would have been awesome! Unfortunately, the way I've constructed this story does not allow for Drogon to show up earlier than he does on the show.**

 **TheArisingOverlord: And now we have.**

 **Agent of Hydra: Red Skull, or Hive?**

 **thewookie1: Thank you so much! That's exactly what I set out to do when I started The Black Dragon. As we know, Game of Thrones is a very dark and depressing universe, and so my story, and Drakon's, had to be similarly bleak. The main inspirations for Drakon's character in terms of his transformation are Arya Stark and Walter White. Both of them started out as good, innocent people, but over the course of their respective narratives, their enemies and the circumstances they find themselves in force them to become more hardened and ruthless, until they eventually become the people they hate. For Drakon, he hasn't really had that many 'good' influences in his life. Rhaegar, Jocelyn, and Ser Barristan helped him become a better person, but they all died in horrific ways or were forced to leave him. In their absence, he's had to learn a great deal from people like Tywin Lannister, arguably his greatest enemy, just to survive, and just like Darth Vader, he has good in him, but it's REALLY buried below the surface.**


	23. Dancing Dragons

_**King's Landing…**_

Ser Hugo made his way through the streets of the capital, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was still sore and bruised from what had happened at the brothel; after forcing him to walk naked through the streets, the Sparrows had left him beaten and bloody on the cobblestones.

Now that he was strong enough, he would make those fanatics pay.

A pair of his Goldcloaks followed a step behind as he came to the east barracks, by the Dragon Gate. The knight stepped inside and climbed the stairs up to the roster. "Once we have enough men, we'll go to the Sept of Baelor and throw those bare-footed fanatics in cells, where they belong." Looking over the day's assignments, he said "Willem and his patrol will join us, which means Harry will have to send some men from the Iron Gate to fill the gap. And Turner and Myke should spare twenty men, as well. Now, as for—"

"Lord Commander."

Ser Hugo turned and saw one of his men standing in the doorway. "Cooper. You're supposed to be patrolling along the Street of the Sisters. What are you doing here?"

The man paused, looking down at the floor. He looked conflicted about something. "I'm… I'm sorry, Commander. When I heard that you were moving against the Faith, I…"

The hairs on Ser Hugo's neck stood on end. "What did you do?"

"The gods cannot be insulted, Commander. If you choose to strike their holy representatives, then… you must be evil." He then stepped aside as several of the Sparrows in black entered the room. "I confessed to the High Septon of your plan."

"Oh, you fucking traitor" the knight spat.

He drew his sword, as did Martyn and Harold. Just as he started to advance on the Sparrows, however, he cried out as a sword was plunged into his leg. He fell to his hands and knees, turning to see the two men taking a deliberate step back. Ser Hugo gritted his teeth and gripped his weapon as the Sparrows rushed him.

He shouted as he struck out, managing to gut one of the fanatics. Unfortunately, the rest of them started hitting him with their clubs. One of them smashed his teeth in, while another struck his wrist until he dropped his sword as others struck all along the rest of his body.

As he collapsed onto the floor, the Sparrows kept hitting and hitting, breaking bones as they slowly beat him to death. Ser Hugo eventually became limp as he bled onto the floor.

* * *

 _ **The Red Keep…**_

Visenya sang to Rhaenyra in High Valyrian, the same song her own mother had sang to her as a babe, as her daughter suckled at her breast. The silver-haired woman smiled at the violet-eyed infant, marveling at the perfection she and her brother had created. Daemon was lying on the bed next to her, playing with his toys.

As she nursed her daughter, Visenya idly looked around the royal quarters, wishing for the day when her brother would be back in her arms and in her bed. On the far wall, beneath a painting of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, was a shelf containing various trophies that Drakon had taken from his enemies during the Second War of Conquest: Jaime Lannister's crumpled, burned metal hand, the Mountain's oversized skull, Walder Frey's silver drinking chalice, Victarion Greyjoy's kraken helm, Ramsay Bolton's gelding knife, and Stannis Baratheon's sword.

She smiled as she looked at them. They were reminders of House Blackfyre's victory over all the oathbreakers and usurpers of the realm, of how the Black Dragon had burned all his enemies into ash.

When Rhaenyra finished feeding, Visenya gently handed the infant to a handmaiden. She then covered herself and stretched her stiff muscles. Just then, there was a knock at the door. "Yes?" she called, and Ser Eustace entered the room.

"Your Grace", he said, his expression grave, "Ser Hugo is dead."

A short time later, Visenya stood before the Goldcloaks' Eastern Barracks, looking at Ser Hugo's broken, bloodied corpse. It had been nailed to the door, naked, with a seven-pointed star carved into his chest. The silver-haired woman pursed her lips in anger; Ser Hugo had been one of her brother's most loyal supporters, and he was butchered by fanatics. Knowing that only one man in King's Landing could have been responsible, or knew who was, she turned around and entered her litter, which was promptly carried over to the Sept of Baelor.

Ser Harras and Ser Eustace accompanied her, staying close as they waded through crowds of Smallfolk who shouted and cursed at her. Ignoring them in her current state, the Queen of Westeros soon entered the Sept.

The High Sparrow was speaking to two of his fellows, but upon seeing her, he dismissed them. "Your Grace."

"Ser Hugo is dead."

"Yes, I know" he said, looking entirely unconcerned with the matter.

"A seven-pointed star was carved into his chest" Visenya said, stepping towards him. "That leads me to believe that you had a hand in his murder."

"There will always be faithful who will take up arms against corruption and defend the Faith" he replied. "Ser Hugo was a sinner, Your Grace; he laid with harlots and plotted to strike against the holy representatives of the gods."

"I want the names of whichever of your Sparrows were involved so I can have them executed, and then I just might take your head and put it on a spike."

"You would spill blood in this holy place?"

Visenya sneered. "Holiness is nothing more than an excuse for men's worse nature."

The old man nodded. "Go on, then" he said, taking a step towards her. "I deserve it. We all do. We are weak, vain creatures. We live only by the Mother's mercy."

Just then, a group of Sparrows entered the Sept, dressed in black tunics with chains and wielding spiked clubs and knives. There were at least a dozen, possibly more, and they soon came to encircle the upper ring of the interior. Visenya looked up at them as the two Kingsguard took a protective step towards her. The High Sparrow stared at her with an unflinching gaze, bearing an arrogant smirk on his face. "If you mean for them to save you…"

"I don't" he said calmly. "They'd never reach me in time. No doubt many of us would fall. But who are we? We have no names, no family. Every one of us is poor and powerless. And yet together, we can overthrow an empire."

Visenya quickly glanced at the men in black, noting how tightly they gripped their weapons. "You will regret this."

"There is a great deal I regret" he said, clasping his hands together. "I have much to atone for, like all men. Foremost is crowning you and your brother as the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. For that, I will beg the gods' forgiveness until my final day."

The silver-haired woman felt her blood boiling. Realizing that she had to return to the Red Keep and her children, Visenya turned on her heel and began walking out of the Sept. The Sparrows tensed as she approached, but they made no move to stop her or the two Kingsguard as they walked outside.

Visenya found herself wishing for her brother's return even more. He would have known how to deal with these fanatics; Drakon always knew what to do, what to say, and when diplomacy failed, he would bring down swift and merciless justice upon the High Sparrow, cleansing him with Blood and Fire. Unfortunately, he was not by her side, and so she had to somehow deal with this crisis as the city and its people seemed ready to rise up against her. Ser Hugo's murder was brazen, which meant that the High Sparrow felt confident enough in the actions of his followers. Visenya was unsure as to who she could trust within the capital; it was clear to her now that someone was working against her, spreading rumours about her and her brother and unleashing the High Sparrow. The Goldcloaks were probably filled with penitent men who would be all-too willing to 'confess' to the High Sparrow, so they could not be trusted. She had to use people who were outsiders, people who were unafraid to work in the muck and lie and cheat and kill when necessary.

Later, as the Small Council adjourned for the evening, Visenya started shaping an idea in her mind. While all the others likely had their own agendas, there was one she could trust in this instance.

"Nymeria?" she said. "Wait a moment."

The Dornish woman paused in the doorway, then sat back down as the others left. "Yes, Your Grace?"

Tapping her fingers on the table, Visenya said "I need you to send a message to your sisters."

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Olene and Grey Worm stood beside each other as the rest of the council and the queen sat at the table. For a long while, no one spoke; they all realized the full gravity of the situation, and the thought of their impending doom weighed heavily.

Two red stains marked the stone from the men Drakon Blackfyre had killed.

For her part, the Braavosi could only think of vengeance. Her wound was mostly healed, but it still hurt to stand. She was sustained by hatred, imagining the myriad ways she would kill Drakon Blackfyre for taking her child and Kovarro from her.

Eventually, Tyrion Lannister was the first to speak. "We need to consider our options."

"And what options do we have?" the queen countered. "Ser Barristan is dead. He crossed a continent to serve me, and he was cut down by the man he raised. And now that Drakon Blackfyre has his son back, it won't be long until he kills us all."

"I'm just sorry that he managed to knock me out" Daario said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's quick, for a man of his size."

"We still have time" the dwarf said, getting up and pouring himself a cup of wine.

"And how do you know this?"

"That's what I do" he replied. "I drink and I know things. If Drakon Blackfyre truly cared for Ser Barristan, then he will take the time to bury or burn him, which gives us an opportunity."

"To do what?" Grey Worm asked in the Common Tongue. "He has army. Support of Masters. Dragons."

"And we have Dragons of our own, do we not?"

Everyone glanced at each other, taken by surprise at his words.

The queen sighed. "I can't risk letting Viserion and Rhaegal free, not after Drogon killed those shepherds and flew off to gods know where."

"And how does that compare with complete annihilation?" Tyrion asked. "Drakon has Dragons, and the only thing that can match them are your Dragons. Besides, you're not doing them any favours by keeping them in chains. The ones that Aegon used to conquer Westeros ranged over hundreds of miles. Then, your ancestors started chaining them up in pens. A few generations later, the last Dragons were no larger than cats. You can't be the Dragon Queen if you let yours waste away."

The queen seemed to think it over, staring down at the table.

"If we do nothing, then Drakon Blackfyre will conquer this city" Missandei said, appearing no worse for wear after her brief captivity. "And the Masters will win."

"They will not win" the queen said, her voice filled with steel. She turned to Tyrion. "Very well. I consent to your plan. But the last time I saw them, Viserion and Rhaegal were still angry, and wouldn't let me come close."

He nodded. "I suppose they would be a little upset. Dragons are intelligent. Some Maesters say they are even more intelligent than men. They have affection for their friends and fury for their enemies. They are also highly territorial; they've likely sensed Drakon's Dragons already. If we don't nullify his advantage, then we will all die."

"I will go with you" Olene said, drawing everyone's gazes. "They've known me their entire lives, and they know I am a friend."

"Are you sure?" Tyrion asked. "It would help for them to see a friendly face, but I wouldn't ask you to—"

"If releasing the Dragons means the death of Drakon Blackfyre, then I will do it" the Braavosi said sternly. She then started to walk out of the council chamber. "I'll do it myself if I have to."

She and the dwarf made their way to the catacomb entrance, where several Unsullied stood guard. "The Dragons have been agitated since the beginning of the siege" one of them said in Valyrian.

Taking a deep breath, Olene said "Open it."

They nodded, and proceeded to slowly move the large stone that blocked the entrance. It ground against the street, giving way to an open door that led into darkness. Olene stepped inside, holding a torch. Tyrion walked beside her, grabbing an unlit torch from the wall. She touched hers to his, and it soon began to glow.

An angry growl came from within the darkness, and the Braavosi felt her heart beating faster as she gripped her torch so tight that her knuckles turned white.

She and the dwarf shared a nervous glance, then began to descend into the large cavern.

This time, they could hear the sounds of massive chains rattling as one of the Dragons roared. Olene winced from the noise, but slowly, step by step, continued to walk. The light cast from the torches revealed the stone floor and walls, and the thick pillars supporting the ceiling. Suddenly, they saw movement from the shadows marked by two pairs of glowing eyes. As they took another step, Olene and Tyrion's torches revealed Viserion and Rhaegal.

Both Dragons shook their heads, rattling their chains, then approached. They were much, much bigger than she remembered, but they were still not even half the size of Drakon Blackfyre's Dragons.

Tyrion held out a hand in a non-threatening gesture and said "I'm friends with your mother."

One of the Dragons, Olene couldn't quite tell which, came over to her, looming over her as it stared with its glowing eyes. "You remember me" she said, every muscle in her body tenser than she could ever remember. "I'm a friend. You've known me for many years."

The Dragon leaned down and sniffed her. It gave a low growl, and she did not know if that was good or bad.

"We're here to help" Tyrion explained. "Don't eat the help."

The Dragon facing him gave a sort of cackle-growl.

He started to circle the creature. "When I was a child, an uncle asked what gift I wanted for my Nameday. I begged him for one of you. 'It wouldn't even have to be a big Dragon!' I told him. 'It could be little, like me'." He set the torch down, and Olene looked at him as he added "Everyone laughed, like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Then my father told me the last Dragon had died a century ago. I cried myself to sleep that night." He reached up and gently placed a hand on the creature's scaled neck. "But here you are."

He then pulled the pin from its collar, which came loose and fell to the floor.

Olene then turned to look at the other one, and gasped when she saw that its nose nearly touched her body. She froze, afraid that she would become a snack at any moment. It did not eat her, however. Instead, it lowered its nose to her stomach and sniffed at it, giving a low, mournful sound from the back of its throat. It then turned its head and bared its neck to her.

She glanced at Tyrion, who nodded. Setting her torch down, she reached up for the pin and pulled it out, releasing the magnificent creature from its collar.

The two Dragons then propelled themselves towards the entrance.

* * *

 _ **Outside the city…**_

Drakon took the last of the logs and placed them on the funeral pyre as his Kingsguard watched. Edwyn and Lord Tarly stood beside them and watched, along with Samwell, whose Direwolf was recovering from her injury.

The muscular man had spent the last hour gathering enough wood, not allowing anyone else to help him. Eventually, he finished, and he proceeded to gently pick up Ser Barristan's corpse, laying it down on top of the pyre. The old man looked… peaceful, his eyes closed as if he were at rest. Drakon could remember conversations in his youth in which his mentor had expressed his desire to die as a knight. The thing that had terrified him the most was wasting away in some dark room, unable to hold a sword or carry out his sacred duty.

If nothing else, Drakon had given him a good death while fulfilling his vows to Daenerys Stormborn. He died as a true knight, strong and pure, and now the time was at hand for him to rest.

As the muscular man placed Ser Barristan's sword over his chest, placing his hands over the hilt, he heard someone approaching.

"Your Grace", Ser Loras said, "this man was your enemy. He swore to serve the Targaryen girl, and he shouldn't be given all your attention, not when we need to launch an attack on the city. Let him rot in the sun, like the traitor he—"

Drakon spun around and backhanded the Knight of the Flowers, bloodying his mouth and knocking him to the ground.

"If you ever speak ill of Ser Barristan again", he said, his voice low and threatening, "then I will remove your hand, Ser."

Ser Loras spit some blood onto the dirt, getting up without a word.

A small crowd of soldiers gathered around the pyre, a crowd which steadily grew and grew. Ser Barristan was a legendary knight, known across the Seven Kingdoms for his bravery and purity. All of these men had heard stories of the old man, most of them likely inspired to be like him in some way.

Rhaegon and Maelion looked down at the proceedings, lightly shaking their heads in the morning sun as their scales glowed brilliantly, shining on Ser Barristan's body.

"We gather here to honour a great man" Drakon said, looking around at the myriad faces of his lords and soldiers. "Ser Barristan was a man of honour, one who kept his vows even if they bound him in servitude to a whoring drunk who stole the Seven Kingdoms from its rightful rulers. They called him 'Barristan the Bold', and that name has endured for decades, and will likely endure for centuries to come."

He smiled down at the corpse, his eyes misty with tears.

"At the Tourney of Blackhaven, at the age of ten, he donned the armour of a mystery knight and was unseated by Ser Duncan the Tall, earning his epithet. At sixteen, he was knighted after unseating Prince Duncan and Duncan the Tall at the Tourney of King's Landing. He… he defeated and killed my father, Maelys I, when no other man could do the same. At twenty three, he was named to the Kingsguard, swearing his vows before Ser Gerold Hightower. When King Aerys was taken hostage during the Defiance of Duskendale, he singlehandedly rescued his king. During the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood, he personally slew their leader, Simon Toyne, in single combat. At the Tourney of Storm's End, he unseated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

Drakon paused, his breath uneven. Clenching his hands into fists, he forced himself to continue.

"The Seven Kingdoms have never known a truer knight. Ser Barristan's achievements stand as a monument to his character, to his undying loyalty and his purity of purpose. We should all aspire to be as he was: brave and honest, unflinching in the face of danger." He held out a hand, and Edwyn brought over a torch. Drakon smiled at him, then turned to face Ser Barristan. "Farewell, Barristan the Bold. Your light has gone from this world, and we are all the poorer for it. Go now to your eternal rest."

He then dipped the torch into the logs, and the flames soon spread until the whole pyre burned. Every man gathered there bowed his head in honour of the fallen knight. Rhaegon and Maelion gave mournful caws, dipping their heads to the ground in respect as Drakon felt hot tears running down his face.

Suddenly, a pair of monstrous roars came from the city.

Drakon and everyone else looked that way, and saw two distinct shapes rising from the Great Pyramid, flapping their wings. The muscular man narrowed his eyes and said "Daenerys." Turning to the others, he said "Prepare for battle! When Daenerys' Dragons fall, we will sack the city!"

There was a cry of excitement, and as the camp erupted into chaos, Drakon looked at Edwyn and nodded. As his son moved to join the others, the muscular man walked over to his Dragons. Rhaegon lowered a wing, allowing him to climb onto the creature's back.

Once he was in place, he said " _Sovetis_!"

The silver Dragon roared, then with a beat of his wings, he soared above the camp along with Maelion.

The siblings flew high above the ground, and Drakon could see Daenerys' Dragons flying above the Great Pyramid. One had cream and gold scales, with red-orange wings, while the other had green scales with some bronze and yellow-orange wings. Drakon's Dragons growled as they approached the others, starting to turn and fly straight at them. He forcibly pulled at the reins and gave sharp commands, turning them away. This battle would not be won if they gave in to their baser instincts.

The green-scaled Dragon flew towards him, but the cream and gold-scaled Dragon swooped down on his army's camp. It breathed a plume of fire which incinerated a large section of tents, roasting soldiers and supplies. Drakon growled in anger, and it proceeded to make another pass, blasting tents and soldiers alike.

They presented a problem that had to be dealt with.

Once his mount was high enough, the muscular man took his Dragon Horn and gave a single, sustained bellow with it. Rhaegon jerked a little, but Drakon spoke comforting words in High Valyrian. Daenerys' Dragons gave twin cries, and started flying in his direction, the direction of the horn.

While Rhaegon and Maelion had been carefully trained with the horn, their counterparts were not as familiar with it. However, they were just as drawn to its call, which was the outcome that Drakon had hoped for.

The bait had been placed and taken.

By now, Rhaegon and his brother were flying past Meereen's walls, over the west bank of a river that ran to the north. The other two were flying after them from the east, and Drakon finally allowed his Dragons to turn towards them. They flew down to meet them, and at a voice command, Rhaegon fully extended his wings to the side. The light from the early morning sun reflected off of the golden wings, shining in the other Dragons' eyes and limiting their sight.

With their smaller cousins distracted, Drakon's children struck.

Maelion dived at the cream and gold Dragon, slamming into it as the two became tangled in a writhing mass of fangs and claws. Rhaegon came to envelop the green and bronze Dragon in his embrace, wrapping his golden wings around it as they slammed together. The two creatures tore at each other, two savage beasts trying to kill a rival. Rhaegon clamped down on the other's neck, eliciting a piercing scream of pain as it viciously raked the claws of its feet against the silver Dragon's belly, slicing through scales and drawing blood. The creature soon spotted Drakon, and tried to eat him. He drew Blackfyre and slashed upwards, cutting it vertically on the tip of the nose. It recoiled from him, screeching.

Drakon gritted his teeth and said " _Daeremagis!_ "

Rhaegon promptly released his grip on the other Dragon, flapping his wings and creating some distance.

" _Angogis_!"

His mount then lunged, trying to bite the other. Unfortunately, as it was smaller and quicker, it managed to avoid the attack and fly past. Tightly gripping the reins, Drakon made Rhaegon turn around, and the silver Dragon once more lunged, baring his long, sharp fangs. He bit down on the other Dragon's wing, pulling back and tearing off a chunk of the thin membrane, eliciting another shriek of pain.

As Drakon and his Dragons clashed with Daenerys' Dragons, Daario Neharis walked along the wall, watching them fight. The fighting had brought the mighty beasts lower to the ground, the northern river raging beneath them. A number of Second Sons began firing arrows at their queen's rival and his pet Dragons, but most of the shots either missed or struck their armoured bellies.

The commander of the Second Sons took a bow from one of his men, keeping one eye open as he kept sight of Drakon Blackfyre. He pulled back on the bowstring, following his enemy's movements and waiting for the right moment to strike. Eventually, as the man's silver and gold Dragon tore a piece of Rhaegal's wing off, there came a moment when it hovered in the air.

Daario loosed the arrow.

Up in the air, Drakon quickly glanced at Maelion and saw that the bronze Dragon was struggling fiercely with its cream and gold cousin. Like Rhaegon and the green one, his greater size meant that he was slower, and Daenerys' Dragon was using its agility to great effect. Just as he was about to render his bronze child aid, he cried out as an arrow pierced his right shoulder. The impact was enough to throw him off balance, and he slid off of Rhaegon's saddle.

Drakon Blackfyre, King of the Andals and the First Men, fell through the air, plummeting towards the raging river below.

* * *

 _ **Nearby…**_

Samwell Royce sat astride his horse, clenching his hand into a tight fist as he watched King Drakon and his Dragons clash with those of Daenerys Targaryen. It was like nothing he had ever seen before; as a child, he had heard and read countless stories of the Targaryen Dragons, and of how they had fought during the Dance of Dragons well over a century ago. He had always imagined what it would be like to see a Dragon fight another Dragon.

To see it, however, was another matter entirely.

The mighty beasts of legend fought with such ferocity that it left him stunned. They tore at each other with abandon, biting and clawing through scales that would have repelled the sharpest steel. The king's Dragon tore a piece of wing from the green one, and the latter shrieked in pain.

At any moment, they would be given the order to attack the city. Daenerys Targaryen's Dragons had burned almost a thousand soldiers, but the stocky man knew that they could still find victory in this conflict.

Suddenly, Samwell could see the king falling from his saddle, plummeting towards the river beneath him.

The stocky man felt the breath leave his body. He could not believe that Drakon Blackfyre, the man who had given him everything and claimed the Iron Throne, could fall in battle. And yet, he saw the man he had sworn undying allegiance to fall into the river from a substantial distance.

The soldiers around him gasped in shock and horror, and Edwyn cried out with tears in his eyes. "Father! No!"

The young Blackfyre started riding towards the river, but Samwell reacted quickly, cutting him off and taking hold of his horse's reins. A cry from above drew his attention, and he looked up to see the Targaryen girl's green Dragon blasting Rhaegon with a stream of fire. The silver and gold Dragon roared in pain as his left leg became blackened from the heat of the other's Dragonfire. Meanwhile, Maelion managed to deeply gouge the cream and gold Dragon with his claws. All four had been bloodied by the sheer brutality and viciousness of the battle, and they soon scattered, flying off into the distance.

Looking out at the city before them, Samwell pursed his lips. He then turned to look at Randyll Tarly, and the two men shared hard glances. The stocky man turned his horse around and cried "Retreat! Fall back now! Retreat!"

* * *

 **Well, shit. Just when Drakon looks to be taking it all, everything suddenly turns against him.**

 **I REALLY enjoyed writing the Dragon-on-Dragon fighting. The Dance of Dragons is one of my favourite GoT historical periods, and the idea of Dragon riders fighting one another while atop their mounts is just mouth-watering. I knew from the beginning that Daenerys would have to eventually release her children on Drakon, as it was an inevitability as well as being a nod to the story title/concept and to the Dance of Dragons.**

 **We have to say goodbye to Ser Hugo, but that was another inevitability. It's clear now that there's a conspiracy in place against Visenya, and whomever is behind it wants to whittle away her allies in King's Landing.**

 **Please don't hate me for working in the Sand Snakes! I promise to do my best to redeem them from their god-awful show counterparts!**

 **As to the ending, Samwell realizes that their cause has pretty much gone belly up. They lost their king and his Dragons, their biggest advantages, at the same time, and that has a catastrophic effect on morale. They just lost several hundred soldiers, and they might have pulled it off with Rhaegon and Maelion, but he knows that the best course is to fall back and live to fight another day.**

 **Fantasymaker76: I agree. For now, though, Visenya is on her own without her brother to protect her.**

 **Agent of Hydra: Thanks!**

 **krasni: Hopefully this chapter satisfies you! And I just forgot to say that Nymeria hopped onto Maelion along with Samwell.**

 **thewookie1: Indeed. I wanted to give him a dignified Qui-Gon Jin type of funeral, considering how Drakon revered him for his whole life.**


	24. The Great Games

_**A few days later…**_

Olene walked through the darkened passage, hearing the excited shouts from the crowd outside. Once she was alone, she leaned against a wall and smiled, breathing shaky breaths.

Drakon Blackfyre was dead. When they had first met, years ago, she had thought him a powerful man with a strong vision for the future. He had sent her to serve Daenerys Targaryen, and she had viewed it as yet another mission for coin. Over time, however, she had come to see the silver-haired girl grow into a strong, capable woman worthy of her devotion and the Iron Throne. The Braavosi had been truly happy in her service, and marrying Kovarro and carrying his child only enhanced her joy.

That happiness had been destroyed, taken from her by the very man who had sent her to the east in the first place. He had murdered Kovarro by crushing his throat with one hand after murdering her unborn child. She had vowed to kill him, to destroy him for what he had done.

The only regret she had was not firing the arrow that had killed him.

Reaching into a pouch tied to her belt, Olene took out Kovarro's braid and held it against her face. It still smelled like him, and when she closed her eyes, she could picture him standing in front of her. The Dothrakan had ridden his way into her heart, and though justice had been dispensed, the ache she felt almost made her wish that she had not known him, if only to be spared the agony of his absence.

Eventually, she put the braid back in the pouch and, wiping the tears from her cheeks, walked back the way she had come.

As she stepped out into the sunlight, she became awash in the sounds of the crowd. Daznak's Pit was one of the grandest structures in Meereen, shaped like a massive bowl with an expansive, sand-covered floor. With Drakon Blackfyre dead, his Dragons scattered to the winds, and his army retreated, Hizdahr zo Loraq had pushed the queen to reopen the Fighting Pits. What better time to treat the people to the Great Games then after defeating your greatest rival?

And so, the games were upon them, and Olene found herself dreading the 'festivities'. Though she shared the queen's distaste for such things, she knew that the people probably needed some form of entertainment after the threat of imminent death and starvation.

She came back to the royal box, where a number of Unsullied stood guard along the edge. The queen sat at the very front, next to her new consort, Hizdahr, and on either side of them sat Missandei and Tyrion Lannister. Olene came to stand next to Daario just behind the queen, gazing out at the Targaryen banners displayed along the pit.

The last Targaryen turned to look at her. "Are you alright, Olene?"

The Braavosi put on a smile. "Yes, Your Grace."

The queen nodded, not necessarily believing her. Just then, a man in fine robes walked out into the centre of the pit. He gestured for all to be silent, then said in Valyrian "Free Citizens of Meereen! By the blessings of the Graces, and her majesty the Queen, welcome to the Great Games!"

The crowd all stood and cheered as a pair of men entered the pit, coming to stand before the announcer.

"My Queen, our first contest. Who will triumph: the strong, or the quick?"

The smaller man stepped forward. "I fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen."

The much larger man stepped forward. "I fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen."

Olene glanced down at the silver-haired girl as the announcer walked away. The pit was silent as all eyes turned to her, waiting for the signal. "They're waiting for you" Hizdahr said. "Clap your hands."

With obvious reluctance, she brought her hands up and gave a single clap.

The arena burst into excited cheers as the two fighters attacked each other. They seemed to be fairly equal in terms of skill, and as the smaller man cut the larger man in the back, Daario leaned in close to the queen and said "That one, the smaller man, no question. That's where you should put your money."

"The smaller man it is" Tyrion Lannister said, causing Olene to smirk.

"I'm not putting my money anywhere" the queen said.

"Kings and queens do not bet on the games" Hizdahr told the Sellsword, sounding annoyed. "Perhaps you should go find someone who does."

Unperturbed, Daario said "People used to bet against me when I fought in the pits. He would have bet against me. Common novice mistake."

"I've spent much of my life in this arena, and in my experience, larger men triumph over smaller men, far more often than not."

"Smaller men, perhaps." Olene said.

"After all, Drakon Blackfyre defeated you, and you were smaller."

Olene reflexively tensed, and she could see the queen doing the same. "That name will no longer be uttered so long as I rule."

"Has your experienced involved any actual fighting?" Daario asked the other man. "You, yourself? Have you ever killed a man who's trying to kill you?"

His silence was telling.

"Whenever I got into the pit with a beast like that one", Daario continued, "the crowd saw me, all skin and bone back then, and they saw a pile of angry muscle ready to murder me, they couldn't get their money out fast enough." He pulled out his dagger and twirled it in his hand next to Hizdahr's face, causing the man to flinch. "But the pile of angry muscle never had any muscle here, or here, and the big men were always too slow to stop my dagger from going where their muscles weren't. Yes, whenever I saw a beast like that one standing across from me, making his beast faces, I knew I could rest easy."

The smaller man was then beheaded.

Olene blinked in surprise, and Daario took a step back, looking rather annoyed. The Braavosi smirked at him, and he huffed.

"You don't approve?" Hizdahr asked. Olene saw he was looking at Tyrion Lannister.

"There's always been more than enough death in the world for my taste. I can do without it in my leisure time."

"Fair enough. Yes, it's an unpleasant question, but what great thing has ever been accomplished without bloodshed or cruelty?"

"It's easy to confuse what is with what ought to be, especially when what is has worked out in your favour."

"I'm not talking about myself" Hizdahr defended. "I'm talking about the necessary conditions for greatness."

"That is greatness?" the queen asked in disgust as the small man's body was dragged away.

"That is a vital part of the great city of Meereen, which existed long before you or I, and will remain standing long after we have returned to the dirt."

"My father would have liked you" Tyrion said quietly.

The crowd gave a fresh round of cheers as the announcer came back into view, followed by a number of fighters. As he introduced the fighters, the queen said "One day, your great city will return to the dirt as well."

"At your command?"

"If need be."

Olene looked out at the fighters as they talked. There was a Dothrakan, a Summer Islander with a halberd, a fellow Water Dancer from Braavos, and… a knight. Olene's eyes widened to the size of Dragon eggs as she realized just who the knight really was.

Ser Jorah.

Olene looked down at the queen, who was visibly trembling.

"Your Grace—" Hizdahr started to say.

"Shut your mouth" Daario interrupted.

For a tense moment, nothing happened. Then, the queen clapped her hands, and the fight began. The fighters chose opponents for themselves, and to the excitement of the crowd, they attacked. Olene and Tyrion exchanged nervous glances.

Ser Jorah fought the Summer Islander, and looked like he was about to lose, but summarily stabbed the other man in the heart. At the same time, the Water Dancer killed the Dothrakan, and Olene reflexively held the pouch with Kovarro's braid tightly in her hand. The man's technique was excellent, but as she watched him, she could see that it was not true Water Dancing. Syrio Forel had taught her to be quick, to strike decisively and move like water. A Water Dancer sought to end their opponent as quickly as possible, but this man bled his opponents before killing them; he was all about sport and drawing out men's suffering.

Jorah retrieved his sword, and he and the Water Dancer lunged at each other. It was readily apparent that the disgraced knight was much, much slower than his opponent. He received several cuts and stabs, and soon enough, he was on the ground as the Meereenese Champion killed his opponent.

"You can end this!" Tyrion said.

Hizdahr shook his head. "She cannot."

"You can."

Olene leaned forward and gently placed a hand on the queen's shoulder. "If you do not, then Jorah will die."

The crowd started chanting for the kill, and just as Jorah's life was about to end, the Meereenese Champion stabbed him in the back. The queen let out a quiet sigh of relief as the knight stood back up and grabbed his sword. Just like before, Jorah was slower than his opponent, but just as he was about to have a spear shoved through him, he rolled and stabbed the Meereenese Champion through the gut with his sword, much to the shock of all.

As the crowd booed, Jorah looked over at the queen, panting from the fight. His expression turned angry, and he picked up the dead man's spear. Realizing what was about to happen, Olene and Daario shielded the queen with their own bodies as he hurled the spear, which struck someone behind them.

The man was thrown to the floor by the force of the blow, and they could clearly see that he was a Son of the Harpy by his mask.

Olene looked up and saw more.

Here, a trio stood up. There, a group of five. They suddenly appeared in the stands, wearing their golden masks as they brandished their daggers. "Protect your queen!" Daario barked, and the nearby Unsullied grouped around the last Targaryen as the Sons of the Harpy started butchering people in the stands.

As Daario fought one of them with his Arakh, Olene drew her rapier and lunged at another. Ducking beneath a slash, she cut the man along both legs, then stood and stabbed him through the heart. A second one charged her, and she deftly sidestepped his attack while simultaneously tripping him. The Braavosi placed a boot on his back as she pierced his throat with her rapier.

The pit was now in a state of pure chaos, with citizens and Unsullied being cut down everywhere around them. "Your Grace!" Hizdahr called. "Your Grace, I know a way out—"

He was cut off as several Sons of the Harpy surrounded him and stabbed him in the chest over and over again.

As Olene and Daario fended off a few more, Ser Jorah appeared and stabbed one from behind. The three of them nodded to one another, knowing that the important thing was to protect their queen. They all huddled around her, and Olene said "It appears that the Masters are eager for your death after Drakon Blackfyre's failure to kill you."

Faced with overwhelming odds, they proceeded to lower the queen into the pit before following her by leaping down from the box. Olene saw Tyrion kill a Son of the Harpy who threatened Missandei, and the two of them joined the others.

"This way!" Jorah said, leading them to a nearby exit. Unfortunately, the door was closed and locked from the other side.

A Son of the Harpy appeared, and Olene cut his throat with a flick of the wrist.

"The other side! Follow me!" Daario said. With that, they proceeded to move across the pit, joined by an Unsullied here or there. They formed a protective ring around them, but they all stopped as a fresh horde of Sons of the Harpy came pouring out of the entrances. They quickly encircled the group, and a tense standoff ensued. Olene, Jorah, Daario, and the Unsullied were able to kill the most foolish of them, but there were far too many. Eventually, they would be overwhelmed.

The queen and Missandei held hands, and Olene said to herself "I will see you soon, my Sun and Stars."

Suddenly, a roar sounded from nearby.

Everyone froze and looked up at the sky, likely wondering if one of Drakon Blackfyre's Dragons had returned, or…

In a plume of fire, Drogon came flying into the pit, screeching as he circled above them. The Sons of the Harpy shouted in alarm as they dispersed, and the black Dragon came to land on the ground. Olene had never been so happy to see him, and she had the distinct pleasure of seeing his jaws clamp down on one of the masked men. He thrashed his head from side to side, eventually ripping the man's body in half, before discarding his new toy.

Turning to face a group of them, Drogon doused them with his fire, instantly burning them alive. They screamed in agony as their flesh blackened and blistered, and Drogon quickly proceeded to burn several more.

Suddenly, his hide was pierced by a spear, and he screeched in pain. He burned more Sons of the Harpy, but more spears were thrown, and the Dragon was quickly being wounded.

"Drogon!" the queen cried out.

Olene suddenly found herself being rushed by Sons of the Harpy along with Daario and Jorah. As the three of them fought, the queen walked over to her largest Dragon and pulled a spear from his throat. He roared at her, but then calmed, and seemed to look at her with love and affection. The silver-haired girl reached out to touch him, but he was suddenly pierced by yet another spear.

As the fighting continued to rage, the queen climbed onto Drogon's back. She said something to him, and he proceeded to screech as he came at them. Olene grabbed onto Tyrion Lannister, throwing them both to the ground as Drogon charged past them.

They stood up just in time to see the black Dragon take to the air with his mother on his back. Even though Olene had seen Drakon Blackfyre riding his Dragon, she could not help but feel wonder at the sight.

She watched as the queen flew high into the sky, and out of sight.

* * *

 **And there is one of my favourite sequences from the otherwise inferior Season 5. For those of you who wanted Drogon to show up during Drakon's assault, all I can say is that, according to my headcanon, Drogon sensed that Daenerys was in trouble and immediately started flying towards Meereen. However, he was thousands of miles away, and Drakon only laid siege to the city for just under two weeks. By the time Drogon arrives, Drakon has already fallen and his forces scattered.**

 **Hope that helps.**

 **And my headcanon also states that the Masters lost patience when their Hail Mary, Drakon, failed, which was why they committed so many resources to killing Daenerys at the pit. They've gotten impatient, and have had to go back to doing it themselves.**

 **Coffee Targaryen: Hehe. Now all I can see is a dotted line and a laughing skull.**

 **Fantasymaker76: That's what I would like to happen, as well. You'll just have to wait and see. ;)**

 **krasni: Well, I'm glad you liked the chapter.**

 **Mach9330: For my purposes, this horn is like a dog whistle for Dragons.**

 **guest: Well, that's your opinion.**

 **Hackslash24x7: Absolutely, and if the fight had progressed any further, he would have won. Viserion and Rhaegal have enthusiasm, but Drakon and his Dragons have more stamina and experience, so they would win in a prolonged engagement.**

 **Hail King Cerion: Thank you so much! That's what I was going for.**


	25. To Hunt for Dragons

_**Several miles from Meereen…**_

Edwyn growled as he smashed the wine jar on the table, proceeding to swipe everything off before flipping the table over.

Samwell watched the young man vent his anger, and he exchanged a glance with Randyll Tarly. The three of them stood in the stocky man's tent along with the three Kingsguard, having gathered once the army had made camp several miles to the west of Meereen in the wake of King Drakon's defeat and apparent death. Nymeria growled reflexively at Edwyn's rage, but Samwell calmed her by gently stroking her back.

"We need to go back and sack the city!" Edwyn said, turning to look at the others. "That little Targaryen bitch needs to pay! I'll cut her throat myself."

"What we need is to return to Westeros" Lord Tarly counselled. "When word of this spreads, there will be chaos, anarchy. The king's heir is only an infant, and there are those who would take advantage of the death of a king and the loss of his Dragons."

"Fuck Westeros and fuck all that!"

Samwell stepped over to the boy he had known for years, firmly grabbing him by the shoulders. "I know you are grieving right now, but you have to think of the situation back home. Your family needs you; your siblings will need help in keeping order, and you are the lord of the most prosperous of the kingdoms."

Edwyn looked like he wanted to argue the point, but instead he slumped his shoulders in defeat and nodded.

"Alright" Samwell said, releasing his grip. "Edwyn, you and Lord Tarly will take your men and the Crownlands army back to Westeros."

The young Blackfyre furrowed his brow. "Aren't you coming with us?"

The stocky man shook his head. "Yara and Theon Greyjoy are still out here somewhere, and I intend to carry out their sentence. My men and I will hunt them down. Then, we shall return."

"Come my lord" Lord Tarly said. "We must begin preparations."

With that, the two men left the tent.

Ser Loras glanced at the tent flap, then said "Forgive me, my lord, but do we really know that the king is dead? We only saw him fall into the river, but we didn't stay to search for a body. There's a chance that he might be alive."

Samwell nodded. "That is why I intend to ride out alone and follow the river until I find his body, or I find him alive."

"Shouldn't we tell Edwyn that his father might be alive?" Ser Prester asked.

"I don't want to give him false hope" Samwell replied. "There's only a chance that he's alive, and a very small one at that. Besides, Randyll Tarly is right; the Seven Kingdoms will try to tear themselves to pieces when word of this reaches them, and we need as many men back home to keep order as we can."

Ser Loras nodded. "Ser Balon, you will return to King's Landing and join the others in protecting the Queen and her children. Ser Prester and I shall remain here and join you, my lord."

Later, when Edwyn and Lord Tarly set out with their forces to sail back to Westeros, Samwell watched them from astride his horse with Nymeria and the two Kingsguard beside him. Once the departing ships were out of view, he turned his grey steed around and urged it forward. The group crested a hill and left the camp behind, intent on rescuing a fallen king or returning his body to where it belonged.

Time would tell how their journey would end.

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

The throne room was silent.

Tyrion, Daario, and Jorah sat on the steps leading up to the throne, while Olene stood leaning against a nearby wall. The four of them stared into empty space as they felt the full gravity of their situation. Their queen was gone, having flown away on Drogon in the midst of the most daring Sons of the Harpy attack to date.

The only noise that penetrated the silence was the sound of Daario cracking his knuckles.

Eventually, Tyrion said "You love her, don't you?" All eyes turned to the dwarf, and he rhetorically asked "How could you not? Of course, it's hopeless for the both of you. A Sellsword from the Fighting Pits, a disgraced knight… neither one of you is a fit consort for a queen. But we always want the wrong woman."

Olene thought there was a story to tell there.

"Does he always talk so much?" Daario asked Jorah, who nodded.

The Braavosi turned at the sound of footsteps, and saw Missandei holding onto Grey Worm's arm as they entered the throne room. The Unsullied commander still had bandages wrapped around his midriff, as he had not fully recovered from his injuries. "Jorah the Andal" he greeted gravely.

"Grey Worm" the other man returned in Valyrian.

"You should not be here."

"No, but he is" Daario said.

"Our queen ordered him exiled from city."

Olene took a step away from the wall and turned to face the Unsullied. "He saved the queen's life, my friend. Whatever he is, he would never let any harm come to her."

"It's true" Missandei said in Valyrian. "And I would be dead if not for the…" She glanced at Tyrion, obviously trying to be polite, and finished with "little man."

"Dwarf" he corrected in Valyrian, much to Olene's surprise. "I believe that's the word. Apologies. My Valyrian is a bit nostril."

The Braavosi and Missandei exchanged amused glances, and the latter said "A bit rusty."

"Rusty? Thank you."

"I am sorry" Grey Worm said, looking down at the floor. "Sorry I not there to fight for our queen. Sorry I not there to fight for Missandei when she was taken." The curly haired woman smiled and held his hand for support. Olene stared at their intertwined fingers, remembering what she once had.

Daario nodded and said "You missed a good scrap."

"None of that matters now. The longer we sit here bantering, the longer Daenerys is out there in the wilderness."

"He's right" Tyrion agreed. "The Dragon headed north. If we're going to find her, that's where we'll need to go."

"We?" Jorah asked, amused. "You're a Lannister. Your family saw to it that the queen's family was butchered in their beds."

"And Drakon Blackfyre butchered my family for that very act" the dwarf said, his tone laced with steel. "It is for that very reason why I intend to help Daenerys win the Iron Throne."

"You've been here for how many days now? I fought for her for years, since she was little more than a child."

"And during that time, you betrayed her" Olene reminded him. "You spied on her for her enemies, and you were banished when that came to light."

"Forgive me, Braavosi, but were you not doing the same thing when Drakon Blackfyre sent you here?"

She pursed her lips in frustration. "I never spied on the queen. He sent me here to serve her, and I have. It's the only good thing that man ever did with his life."

"The queen exiled you" Tyrion said to Jorah. "Twice, I believe?"

"The second time, thanks to you."

"Don't blame me for your crimes, Mormont!"

Daario stood and moved between them. "He's right. Our queen did exile Jorah, and he's right, Jorah saved her life. Perhaps she feels different about him now. Perhaps not. The only way we'll know is if we ask her."

"Fine, fine, I suppose he can join us" Tyrion said. "Just as long as he promises not to kill me in my sleep."

"If I ever kill you, your eyes will be wide open" Jorah promised.

"Forgive me, but why would we bring you?" Daario asked.

The dwarf furrowed his brow in confusion. "Pardon me?"

"Have you ever tracked animals in the wilderness?"

"Not precisely, but I have other skills that would be very useful."

"Can you fight?"

Tyrion sighed. "I have fought. I don't claim to be a great warrior."

"There's more to being a warrior than just killing" Olene said, crossing her arms.

"Are you any good on a horse?"

"Middling."

"So, mainly you talk?"

"And drink… I've survived thus far!"

"Which I respect" Daario said. "But you would not help us on this expedition. You would help us here in Meereen, though. None of us have experience in governing a city, except for you. You want to prove your value to the queen? Prove it right here, in Meereen."

"He's a foreign dwarf who barely speaks the language" Jorah pointed out. "Why would the Meereenese listen to him?"

"They wouldn't. They would listen to Grey Worm."

The Unsullied Commander stepped forward defiantly. "I'll come with you. I'll find our queen."

"You are not strong enough to go anywhere" Missandei reminded him.

"I am."

"He is. He's the toughest man with no balls I've ever met. You still can't go. The people believe in you. They know you speak for the queen."

"It's true. Only the Unsullied can keep the peace in Meereen. If you leave, half the city will consume the other half."

"And Missandei. Our queen trusts no one more than Missandei. Certainly not me."

"I'm going, too" Olene said, drawing everyone's gaze.

"You have any experience in tracking someone through the wilderness?"

"I found the queen and Jorah in the Red Waste, didn't I?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

The Sellsword inclined his head. Turning to the others, he said "The queen's closest confidante, the Commander of the Unsullied, and a foreign dwarf with a scarred face. Good fortune, my friends. Meereen is ancient and glorious. Try not to ruin her. Looks like it's the three of us along for the ride, Jorah the Andal and Olene of Braavos. Let's find some good horses. We have so much to talk about."

With that, the three of them set off on their journey. Tyrion stood on the walls facing the former site of Drakon Blackfyre's army's camp, watching the three riders cross the bowl-shaped depression. As they passed out of view, and as the sun shone down on him, the dwarf heard someone approaching.

"Hello, my old friend" a familiar singsong voice greeted.

Tyrion turned and saw Varys walking over to him.

"I thought we were so happy together, until you abandoned me."

"I suppose there's no point asking how you found me" the dwarf said, dryly.

"The birds sing in the west, the birds sing in the east. If one knows how to listen. They tell me you've already found favour with the Mother of Dragons."

"Well, she didn't execute me, so that's a promising start."

After a moment of silence, Varys said "I am sorry for what happened to your family. Such a distasteful act; I've never enjoyed killing, but exterminating whole families is another matter entirely."

"Yes" Tyrion agreed. "Drakon Blackfyre and my father seemed to have several things in common."

"I met him once, years ago, back when he was known as Lord Sebastion Stormheart. He had an intimate knowledge of the tunnel system of King's Landing, which very much intrigued me. I confess that I could not discover how, but I suppose growing up in the lower levels of the Red Keep would provide one with the opportunity to explore."

"I suppose so. I find myself wondering how you could have missed the fact that a man within the Crownlands had birthed his own Dragons."

Varys sighed. "I'd heard rumours on and off for years. A bird would sing to me of hearing a strange cry coming from the sky, but the others would have nothing more to tell. Then, another would sing that they saw large, winged shapes in the distance, only for those rumours to fall silent. It was almost as if he kept them confined for weeks at a time and let them out at regular intervals."

"Enough to hide them, but not enough to hinder their growth."

"Indeed. I suppose it also helps when you and all the lords of Crackclaw Point are joined in conspiring to overthrow the royal family."

"He certainly was a clever man."

"I suspect that he also had help from Mistress Grey."

"Mistress who?" Tyrion asked, looking up at his old friend.

"Rona Grey, Drakon Blackfyre's oldest friend and trusted confidante. Her birds and mine often cross paths. She grew up an orphan in the Reach, snatching letters and spying for a minor lord. She eventually took control of his network and started growing it exponentially. Along the way, she struck a friendship with the lord's bastard daughter, who would go on to marry Drakon Blackfyre and bear his older children."

"I have to admit, he had a talent for gathering capable allies. We're going to need some of our own if we want to install Daenerys as Queen of Westeros."

Varys smiled a little. "I've already made some arrangements in that regard. Still, even in death, Drakon has powerful allies back in Westeros, and his children will never forgive us for killing their father."

"All of that will have to wait, unfortunately. Right now, we have to placate a city that's on the brink of civil war. Any advice for an old comrade?"

"Information is the key. You need to learn your enemies' strengths and strategies. You need to learn which of your friends is not your friend."

"If only I knew someone with a vast network of spies" Tyrion said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"If only" the spider said, struggling not to smile. "A grand old city, choking on violence, corruption, and deceit. Who can possibly have any experience in managing such a massive, ungainly beast?"

The two men shared knowing looks, and Tyrion said "I did miss you."

"Oh, I know."

* * *

 **Wow, that was all dialogue. I hope it's not too boring!**

 **This is the last official chapter of Season 5, but don't worry; I'll be posting an epilogue on Wednesday, so there's still a bit for you lovely people to read.**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **TheArisingOverlord: I heartily agree. I think that her heart is in the right place, but even though she's spent the last several seasons trying to become a more effective ruler, she's just not that good at it.**

 **nanold: I definitely want Daario to die. I can't stand that guy.**

 **ConquerorofHeaven: I think you mean Westeros. ;) And I look forward to that, too.**

 **MEL: Sorry!**

 **Melanie: Daenerys would definitely have trouble finding many allies in Westeros. There are plenty who would want to overthrow Drakon's family, but there are more who are loyal to him and his family.**


	26. Snakes and Wolves

_**King's Landing…**_

Visenya glanced behind her, seeing only darkness. She wore a dark cloak over her dress, pulling the hood tightly over her head. Ser Harras led the way, holding a torch that illuminated the empty tunnel as they walked.

There were over fifty miles of tunnels that ran beneath and through the capital, built by Aegon's descendants in the years after the Conquest. Since Maegor Targaryen had had the original architects and engineers executed, none had fully mapped the network. None apart from her brother, who had grown up in the lower levels of the Red Keep until he was into adulthood. Drakon had explored the near entirety of the network over the years, fully mapping where each of them led. He had shared this knowledge with her, pointing out which tunnels would lead out of the Red Keep or into any given chamber within.

Now, she and Ser Harras were walking through a tunnel that would take them to the docks. Ser Benedict and Ser Eustace were protecting her children, a duty that was all the more critical, given the danger posed by the High Sparrow and whomever plotted against her and her brother.

Doing her best to remember the directions Drakon had given her, she guided the Ironborn knight, giving him directions as he lit the way with the torch.

Visenya inwardly cursed, marveling at how her brother could memorize all this.

Eventually, though, the directions proved true, as they emerged into the city's harbour. Night had fallen, and the sky was cloaked in darkness as they spotted three figures standing nearby. They cautiously approached, and Ser Harras kept a hand on the handle of his Valyrian Steel sword as Nymeria's face came into view from the torchlight. Beside her stood a woman with a hard-set face wielding a spear and another with a playful twinkle in her eyes.

"Your Grace", Nymeria said, gesturing to the other two, "allow me to introduce my sisters, Obara and Tyene."

Visenya nodded. "There are those in this city who would see me fall. My enemies wish to discredit and destroy me, and I ask you to aid me while my husband is away."

"Your husband avenged the deaths of our father and aunt" Obara said. "He destroyed the Lannisters, and for that, he has our gratitude. We would be honoured to help you kill your enemies."

Visenya smirked.

* * *

 _ **The Twins…**_

"For House Halfhand!"

There was a cheer from all the guards and servants. Everyone raised their cups and drank from the best wine any of them had ever tasted. Gerold Halfhand, formerly in the service of Drakon Blackfyre, downed his wine in a single gulp.

"Eat, drink, and be merry! As your new lord, I want you all to be happy. Bring out the girls!"

There was another cheer as a number of whores he had purchased for the occasion entered the dining hall. Gerold sat down in the lord's chair, which, like the Twins themselves, used to belong to Walder Frey. When Drakon Blackfyre, now King Drakon, had had the Frey family all put to death, he had given the castle to Gerold, as a reward for his faithful service. He had taken the Freys' castle and their sigil for his own, creating House Halfhand. Even though the king had taken most of Walder Frey's jealously hoarded riches, there was still quite a bit left. Gerold had ensured that the place would be 'spruced up' considerably, as he did not want to live in a shabby castle filled with leaky roofs and broken furniture.

He had spent over twenty years in the service of this lord or that lord, infiltrating castle after castle in an effort to root out dirty secrets that men's rivals could use against them. No one was better than Gerold at disguising himself; he had even given himself a nasty cut along his brow in an effort to look like some dead man.

The Twins and its riches were his reward, and every few weeks, he made sure to throw the most memorable parties for his new household to celebrate his new lordship.

A dark-haired whore walked over to him, her hips swaying in the candlelight. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. "Come here, my dear. Why don't you do your best to give me my money's worth?" She pressed her lips against his, and he moaned in delight at the taste of strawberries as he roughly pawed at her breast. Noticing movement from the corner of his eye, he broke the kiss and looked to the right.

Standing in the doorway was a boy of ten, with curly brown hair.

Sighing, Gerold kissed the whore on the lips and said "Don't go far, love." He then stood her up and walked over to the boy. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"Couldn't sleep" he replied, looking around at the drunken revelry.

"Come on" Gerold said, gently ushering the boy out of the dining hall. They idly walked through the castle, and the new Lord of the Crossing asked "Is there anything I can get you? Food? Drink? What do you want?"

The boy stopped walking and said "I want to go home."

Gerold smiled sympathetically and got down on one knee, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know, lad. But remember what I told you: outside these walls, there are enemies everywhere. Bad people who would want to hurt you."

The boy looked down at the floor. "I miss my family."

"Of course you do. But the world believes that Rickon Stark is dead, so none of the bad people are looking for you. Remember, you're Arthur Halfhand, and…"

"And I'm your son" he finished, earning a nod from Gerold.

"That you are. Now, go back to bed and try to get some sleep."

He watched as the last surviving Stark boy turned around and started walking back to his room. Gerold stood up and exhaled, knowing the sort of punishment he would receive from the king if he ever cocked up his assignment and let the boy loose on the world.

Running his intact hand through his hair, he turned and walked back to the party.

* * *

 **And there we have it: the end of Season 5! This was quite interesting for me to write, and I very much look forward to exploring this story in the future. Again, please don't hate me for bringing in the Sand Snakes! I promise to do my best!  
**

 **So, I thought I would try something different (and hopefully fun) going into Season 6. I'd like you lovely readers to submit a character for me, specifically the commander of the garrison at Casterly Rock. I've already decided the characters' role in the story (mostly), but I thought it would be fun for one of you to submit his/her physicality/history/personality. You can submit characters to me either through a review or as a PM. They can be from an existing Westerlands House, an original House, or even a Lannister bastard, if you want! Man, woman, noble, knight, sane, psychotic, it's really open-ended. For format, this is what I'd like:**

 **Name:**

 **House/Bastard Name (or no surname, if commoner):**

 **Physical Appearance:**

 **Personality:**

 **Brief History:**

 **Favoured Weapon(s):**

 **Family:**

 **I'll take submissions until October 4** **th** **, three weeks from now, so as to give people some time. NO SUBMISSIONS AFTER THE 4** **th** **. We'll see if this little experiment adds a fun dynamic to the story moving forward, or maybe it'll crash and burn. I don't know. Let's see how it goes!**

 **I'll most likely resume posting next summer. Then again, I might just lose patience and start posting in a couple months. Most likely you'll see the next chapters in the summer, because I'm currently re-writing my Sci-Fi novel. Until then, all I can say is…**

 **Valar Morghulis!**


	27. Dark Wings, Dark Words

_**Casterly Rock…**_

Harys Swyft gazed out at Casterly Rock, the greatest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms and his seat as Warden of the West. It had been the seat of House Lannister since the Age of Heroes, since Lann the Clever had finagled it from the Casterlys. For centuries it had been the source of their wealth and power, and now, with all the Lannisters dead and gone, King Drakon had given it to Harys, naming him a Lord in the process.

And he had spent the last six months laying siege to it.

The old man gave a weary sigh from atop his horse. Before his death, Kevan Lannister had left a garrison of 2,000 soldiers to guard the fortress, and they had stubbornly held out since the Second War of Conquest. Harys could not even rule the Westerlands from his new seat of power for the resistance of rebels who held out despite having no allies and no hope of escape.

Out on the water, a number of ships from the recently bolstered House Mallister Fleet maintained a blockade by sea. Here, Lord Swyft's army numbered 10,000 men. He only hoped that such a force could hasten the rebels' defeat all the swifter.

"We should force our way into the caverns," Ser Addam Marbrand suggested from beside him. "We can't afford to wait forever."

"No," Lord Swyft replied, shaking his bald head. "That would cost too many lives."

"No one will ever accuse you of bravery, my lord."

Lord Swyft turned to regard the knight. "My king commanded me to take this castle, and I shall. But I will not risk any kind of assault when we can simply starve the rebels out. We can bring in enough supplies to feed the men, and we are more than adequately established to hem them in."

Ser Addam shook his head. "Why do we follow this Blackfyre king? He slaughtered the Lannisters, your grandchildren among them! How can you not defy him?"

"Because I have no choice! They have my granddaughter in King's Landing, and my daughter is at Riverrun. They are the only family I have left. Would you have me rebel, only to have all of us be burned by Dragonfire? We cannot stand against the might of two Dragons!"

"The Dragons are in Essos. There is nothing to keep us from avenging the massacre of House Lannister. Or have you forgotten the Sack of Lannisport? Do you not remember the women and children butchered in the streets, whole quarters of the city set aflame? This Dragon king and his family need to die. Lord Tywin would have done what was required, since you obviously won't."

Lord Swyft fell silent and returned his gaze to Casterly Rock. The great stone hill dominated the landscape, a powerful symbol of the might of the Lannisters. Right now, all it represented was his greatest failing. "My decision is final."

Ser Addam growled and turned his horse around, riding back to his tent.

A messenger ran over to him, carrying a rolled up piece of parchment. "M'lord! M'lord! A raven came, m'lord, from King's Landing."

Lord Swyft reached down to take the parchment, which bore the seal of Edwyn Blackfyre, Lord of Highgarden. He broke the seal, then unfurled the message. His eyes swept over the ink, taking in the words, and they widened in absolute shock as he felt the air rush out of his aged lungs.

The king was dead.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

Jayne sighed as Adrya washed her arms. Both of them were in the bath together, and she enjoyed her handmaiden's presence. With Andar still away dealing with the Hill Tribes, it was comforting to have someone to confide in as well as someone to share her bed at night.

Still, Jayne was worried.

Just three days ago, the servant, Malcom, had come to her. He told her that someone was planning to kill her and her family. He was clearly nervous about the whole thing, but Jayne had put him at ease by giving him a cup of tea and inviting him to sit. When she asked him who he suspected, he had said "I was feeding the horses when two men came into the stables and started talking. I hid behind a stack of hay. They must've thought they were alone, but they were whispering. They both looked like knights, but I didn't recognize 'em. One of 'em was younger than the other, and he was angry. Said he was tired of waiting to make a move. The older one told him to be patient, that it was almost time. The younger one said he couldn't wait until you were dead, m'lady, and that he'd strangle you with his bare hands before he cut out your baby."

Jayne had felt herself flush with anger and shock. Who were these vile blackguards? Why did they seek to kill her and her child? How could she catch them and execute them?

When she asked if he could remember anything about their appearance, Malcom had said "I didn't recognize their faces, m'lady, but I did notice that they shared the same sigil: a black kettle on red, within a black orle."

House Kettleblack.

Jayne knew that the men Malcom had seen were most likely Oswell Kettleblack and one of his three sons. But which son was it, and why did they conspire against her? She had told Malcom to return to his duties, but report anything suspicious to her and her alone while also telling him to trust no one else with this.

Now, she tried her best to relax as Adrya held her close in the bath. The scented oils wafted up to her nose, a tantalizing aroma of apples and spice, as her handmaiden washed her.

"Are you alright, m'lady? You seem tense."

Jayne smiled and replied "I have many matters that require my attention. One immortal truth of the realm is that peace often requires an equally harsh hand as much as war."

"I am here for you, if ever you need anything."

Jayne took Adrya's hand in hers, holding it tight. "Thank you. You have been such a welcome comfort; I doubt I would have acclimated to life here in the Eyrie as much were it not for your company. There is much to do tomorrow, but for tonight, help me forget my troubles." She guided Adrya's hand below the water, between her legs. Her handmaiden understood, and Jayne soon groaned under her ministrations. Turning her head, she closed her eyes and kissed Adrya, savouring the softness of her lips.

The following morning, Jayne had breakfast with her father-in-law. It was a delicious meal, but she was still preoccupied by what Malcom had told her four days prior. Something had to be done, as she could not let conspirators plot her murder. Despite her reservations about giving birth, in light of how her mother had died, Jayne would rather cut out her own heart than let her child die.

"You seem a little…distracted, Jayne," Lord Royce said, drawing Jayne from her thoughts.

Forcing her attention back to the present, she manufactured a smile and said "I am fine, my lord. I simply worry about Andar, how he is faring against the Hill Tribes."

The old man offered a reassuring smile. "Fear not, my girl. Andar is one of the finest warriors House Royce has produced. I've been training him in tactics and warfare since he could walk. He'll beat back those savages and return to you in no time at all."

This time, Jayne's smile was genuine. "That is good to hear."

The doors to the dining room opened, and Carellen Stokeworth entered. It was extremely rare for a woman to serve in knightly fashion, let alone serve a royal or lordly family, but she had been in Jayne's father's service for many years. When he and her brothers had departed for war, Carellen had been assigned as her Sworn Shield, a station which she had held ever since. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but a raven has come. It is meant for Lady Jayne."

Lord Royce nodded, and the youngest Stokeworth daughter approached Jayne, handing over the letter.

Jayne looked it over and saw the seal of her brother, Edwyn, which meant that father must have freed him. Breaking the seal, she unfurled the letter and read it. A gaping pit opened inside her as she processed the words, and she held a hand to her mouth as tears began to well in her eyes.

"What is it?" Lord Royce asked.

"M-my father," she croaked, her throat suddenly dry and her voice hoarse. "He is…dead!"

"What?"

"My brother, Edwyn, claims he was killed in battle at Meereen. He says—ah!" Jayne felt a bolt of pain stab through her belly, and she doubled over, clutching it as her other hand crumpled the letter. Another bolt of pain came, and she grunted. "Something is wrong!"

"Fetch the Maester!" Lord Royce barked.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Edric got out of bed, slipping his boots on before standing. He only wore a pair of breeches, but he did not notice; Winterfell was built atop hot springs which allowed it to endure the harshness of Northern winters. Looking out the window, he saw that it was still dark outside. Not that daytime would provide much difference, as sunlight in the North was merely a light greyness in the clouds.

Even so, it was some time before morning. Edric sat down, sighing as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Ruling over the North was difficult enough, but now he had to contend with Smalljon Umber and Jon Snow.

The Stark bastard had apparently brought an army of thousands of Wildlings through the Wall. Such a thing had never occurred, not since the ancient structure was built in the Age of Heroes. For Edric, the Wildlings had been nothing but stories about rabid cannibals and Giants made to scare children.

Now, he knew there was more truth then he previously believed.

The North was a harsh land, barely affected by summer. The people were just as harsh, tempered by the biting cold, vicious predators, and the overall lack of proper sunshine. The Wildlings, therefore, had to be even harsher by necessity, as they lived in a land covered by snow year-round, with even larger predators and rival tribes killing each other. Which was why they presented a problem. Jon Snow had taken it upon himself to threaten the stability of the entire North, and that caused men like Smalljon Umber to bring their problems to Edric.

Edric knew that he had to confront Jon Snow, sooner rather than later. If he did nothing, he risked rebellion, and the Northern Lords were unhappy enough about his rule.

Opening his eyes, Edric stared at Sansa, who was still asleep. Her back was turned away from him, and he saw her auburn hair draped around her head like a cloak. The furs only came up to her shoulders, leaving some of her milky white skin bare. She was a true Northerner; however much she might have complained about her home in the past, Sansa had been through enough torture that a little cold was nothing.

Edric smiled as he watched her sleep. In his head, he was years ahead of where he was: he and Sansa were happily married, living in bliss with their four children. They would lay in bed for hours, just staring at each other. In carriages on their way to the capital, they would hold each other close. Every day was perfect because he spend them with her by his side.

His heart ached for a time like that, when he was not desperately wishing she could love him like a pathetic pup. After a few minutes, he got dressed and, as quietly as he could, walked out the door.

Later, well into the morning, Edric stood along the balcony over the main courtyard. When he exhaled, his breath emerged as a wispy white cloud, as if he were an Ice Dragon. Hearing someone approaching, he turned and saw Sansa walking over to him, Brienne a respectful step behind.

"Good morning, my lord." Her smile seemed genuine enough.

"Good morning, my lady."

"You weren't in bed when I woke up," she noted, standing beside him.

He took a moment to look at her face, then replied "I didn't want to wake you. You seemed to be sleeping very peacefully."

They both stood there, gloved hands on the railing as they stared down at the courtyard or out at the dull grey horizon. Edric relished the moment of silence between the two of them, plus Brienne. Sansa said "It's a beautiful morning."

Edric snorted. "Is it? I can never tell up here."

"Give it time."

Give it time…that phrase had become the mantra of his life.

One of the guards atop the wall cried out "Riders approaching!"

Sansa scrunched her forehead as the main gate was opened. "Were we expecting any visitors?" Edric could only smirk, prompting her to ask "Edric?"

A pair of mounted knights rode through the gate, holding banners which depicted a black Dragon's head breathing thorny vines on a field of green. Behind them rode a carriage, and then two more mounted knights. Edric and Sansa walked down to the courtyard as the gate was closed, and one of the knights placed wooden steps at the foot of the carriage as another opened the door.

Out stepped Margaery Blackfyre, formerly Tyrell, Edwyn's wife.

One of the knights took her hand as she walked down onto the dirt. She was absolutely gorgeous, as always, dressed in comfortable green riding clothes. Upon seeing them, Margaery's lips curled in a wide, warm smile. "Sansa!" she called, waving to the other woman.

"Margaery?" Sansa asked, utterly shocked.

Margaery practically ran over to Sansa. She wrapped her arms around her in a loving embrace and said "It's so wonderful to see you again!"

Sansa was almost in tears. "It's wonderful to see you, too. And look at you! You're glowing."

Margaery ran a hand over her growing belly. Edric's smile cracked for a moment, but he did not let it show. "Yes. Very soon, the next Lord or Lady of Highgarden will be coming into the world."

"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked.

"Well, Edwyn has been away for months now. Grandmother, father, and my brother are all at the capital, and I've been left alone at Highgarden. It's all been terribly boring, so I just leapt at the chance to come visit you when your lord husband sent me an invitation."

Sansa looked at Edric with surprise, and he said "I thought the two of you might enjoy spending some time together."

Her smile was most definitely genuine this time, and when she kissed him on the cheek, his face furiously blushed like a cooking goose.

Margaery gave him a knowing smirk, then said "Come, I want to hear all about your new life as a married woman. We can gossip till the sun goes down about our equally dashing husbands!" She and Sansa giggled like young girls as they walked towards the Great Hall.

Edric and Brienne exchanged a glance as they followed them.

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

Bronn downed his drink in one gulp, then gestured to the barkeep for another. The pot-bellied old goat filled his mug, then waddled over to the next patron further along the bar.

It was a bright, sunny day in King's Landing, and like most mornings, Bronn found himself in the Moldy Crow tavern. He was one of four people in at this hour, and since it was early enough that no one was right pissed, he could sit at the bar and drink in peace. With all the big changes sweeping through the Seven Kingdoms in the last few years, he was happy enough with some peace and quiet.

For now, at least.

Just as he started drinking his pint, he heard the sound of rattling chains coming from behind him. Turning on his stool, he saw four of the Sparrows, the self-righteous and insufferably humble religious types, standing in the doorway. They each wore only black wool tunics, with no footwear. Over each tunic were chains, and each man wielded a club.

"Just when I was enjoying my morning," Bronn muttered to himself.

The Sparrow in front took a step forward. "By order of the High Septon, this establishment is closed. Leave now, or face the consequences."

The other three patrons bid a hasty retreat, but Bronn stayed where he was.

"Move, or you will be in contempt of a holy decree."

"Y'know, I never much cared for the Faith" Bronn replied. "All these Septons and High Septons telling us what we can or can't do, all the while fucking whores and taking coins just like the rest of us. That 'high and mighty' shit gets tiring when none of 'em follow their own code!"

The lead Sparrow nodded to the others, who began overturning tables and smashing barrels of beer.

"And then there's you lot," Bronn continued, sauntering over to him. "You think of yourselves as warriors who protect the Faith, that you're servin' the gods. The truth is that you're nothin' but a bunch of miserable cunts who go around and ruin everyone else's day."

The lead Sparrow snarled as he smashed Bronn's mug with his club.

Bronn casually sucked the beer from his fingers. "That was a mistake." Quicker than the blink of an eye, he drew his knife and stabbed the Sparrow in the throat. The man's comrades were shocked as blood poured from the wound like beer from a tap, running down Bronn's hand and staining the black tunic, but quickly gathered their wits and attacked.

Shoving the corpse into the fourth Sparrow, Bronn punched the second in the face, knocking him back. He then crouched as the third attacked with his club, slashing the man's leg with his knife. The Sparrow cried out in pain and fell to his knees, and Bronn slashed his throat without a second thought. By then, the second Sparrow had recovered, but a knife to the heart ended that.

When Bronn turned to face the fourth Sparrow, he saw that the boy had a sword sticking through his chest. The sword was pulled back, and the corpse collapsed onto the floor to reveal one of the Blackfyre Kingsguard standing in the doorway.

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?" the Kingsguard asked, wiping the blood from his sword. Bronn caught the telltale ripples of Valyrian Steel on the blade.

"Who's askin'?"

"Her Grace, the Queen, requests your presence. I am to escort you to the Red Keep."

Bronn looked around at the four Sparrow corpses, each pooling blood on the floor of the tavern. "Eh, why not? Lead the way." The Kingsguard nodded, and the two of them walked out onto the street. He had been kind enough to bring a second horse, so they arrived at the Red Keep in almost no time.

Along the way, Bronn spotted several more groups of Sparrows stalking the streets, roughing up the people and breaking many of the taverns and whorehouses. He also noted the distinct lack of the Goldcloaks.

After stabling their horses, the Kingsguard led him to the Great Hall.

The vast chamber, rendered much more menacing since Drakon Blackfyre restored the skulls of the Targaryen Dragons, was empty. There were no lords or ladies, no Goldcloaks. At the far end, sitting on a chair in front of the Iron Throne, was Queen Visenya, looking every bit as gorgeous as the stories said. A silver gown with a black, three-headed Dragon sewn on the front clung to her wonderful curves, and her belly was starting to swell with yet another royal baby. Her long, resplendent silver hair was draped over her left shoulder.

Beside her stood three women. Bronn did not know who they were, but they were clearly Dornish from the way they dressed. The oldest held a spear, while the second oldest had her hands on the handles of twin daggers at her belt. The youngest, and most attractive to Bronn, had no weapons, at least none he could see. That made her more dangerous.

"Thank you, Ser Harras," the Queen said. The Kingsguard bowed, then took his place directly beside her. She regarded Bronn for a moment, then said "I appreciate your presence, Ser Bronn. It is most welcome."

"Well, as your man will tell you, my morning was a tad…interrupted."

"There has been quite a lot of that these past few days."

Putting his hands on his hips, Bronn said "To be honest, Your Grace, I really don't see what I'm doin' here. You need me to kill someone for you?"

She smirked. "In a manner of speaking. Tyene?"

The youngest of the Dornish women sashayed over to him with a naughty twinkle in her eye. She took a bag of coins from her belt and plopped them in his hand, her fingers lingering on his for a moment too long, before rejoining the others.

"Consider that the first payment in what I hope will be a long and…fruitful relationship."

"I must say, you've got me curious," he said, hefting the bag.

"I invited you here to inform you that I am naming you as the Lord Commander of the City Watch."

"Now that is a surprise. But why me? That Ser Hugo was a right proper knight, that one. Don't you want another just like him?"

The Queen folded her hands on her lap. "Ser Hugo was an honourable knight, and a good man. His murder must not go unpunished. You, however, are no ordinary knight: you are a killer, and it is that sort of man I need serving me now. The High Septon has openly defied the authority of both myself and my husband. His bare-footed fanatics terrorize the people of this city, and he has many members of the City Watch under his control."

Bronn nodded. "Sounds like you've got yourself a right problem, there."

"Indeed. I assume you have heard the disgusting filth that is being spread about me and the king?"

"Aye, I have. People say the king is really your brother, and you fuck each other like the Targaryens used to, which makes your children bastards and unfit to inherit the throne." When her expression hardened, he held up the bag of coins. "But you're payin' me not to believe in filth."

"Quite so. Someone is aiding the High Septon, providing weapons to his army of rabble and spreading false rumours about the royal family. You will work with the Sand Snakes to discover who this traitor is. I want a name, and I want them brought before me. Kill any Sparrow or Goldcloak you have to."

Glancing at the Dornish women, Bronn smirked. "You've got a deal."

* * *

 _ **The Dothraki Sea…**_

Olene kept pace with Daario and Ser Jorah as they rode their horses across the vast plains of the Dothraki sea. The three were searching for their queen, lost since the attack at Daznak's Pit. Even with Drakon Blackfyre dead and his army scattered, the Masters had wasted no time in launching another assault against the rightful Queen of Westeros.

The trio crested a hill beneath the shadow of a tall cliff. They came to a large area of ground where the grass had been burned away. It was covered by a pile of animal skeletons.

Ser Jorah dismounted and inspected one of the skulls.

"Goat?" Daario asked.

"Ram."

"You think our friend got him?"

"Don't know anything else that can melt a ram's horn."

Daario gazed out at the horizon, squinting. "We're on the right path, then." Ser Jorah returned to his horse, and they were on their way. "Perhaps she's tired of being queen," the Sellsword said. "I don't think she likes it very much."

"She's too smart to like it."

"Regardless, she has to," Olene said. "There is no one else in this world that deserves to rule, that needs to rule, more than her. If she does not, then all our sacrifices will have been for nothing." She clutched the bag on her belt that contained Kovarro's braid, every piece of her being wishing he were still alive.

The two men were silent, until Daario said "Maybe she's flown somewhere else, somewhere far away from men like us."

"I've been all over the world. There's no escaping men like us."

"I have to agree, Ser Jorah," Olene said.

"There's no escaping her, eh?" Daario asked the old knight, a smirk on his face. "You keep coming back. Why?"

"You know why."

Olene and Daario exchanged a glance. The latter asked "Isn't it frustrating wanting someone who doesn't want you back?"

"Of course it is."

"You're a romantic. I admire that. Sometimes I look at you and I think 'So that's what I'll be like when I grow old'."

Olene chuckled. "With your luck, I imagine you'll be dead long before anyone would call you 'old'."

"Very likely. Still, I hope I do grow old. I want to see what the world looks like when she's done conquering it."

"So do I," Ser Jorah agreed.

"So do we all."

Olene and Daario kept riding while Jorah stopped his horse, likely to have a drink of water. When the Braavosi woman turned to look at him, she saw the old knight pulling up his sleeve. He looked concerned, but when he saw her looking, he hastily covered his sleeve and rode after them.

Most curious.

The trio came upon a massive swathe of grass covered in horse tracks arranged in a circle. In the very centre of the circle was a bare patch of grass, untouched.

"Huh. An army?" Daario asked.

Olene and Ser Jorah exchanged worried glances. "A horde," the latter clarified. He dismounted and walked over to the bare patch of grass.

"Dothraki?"

Ser Jorah nodded. He spotted something in the grass, and bent down to pick it up. After looking at it, he said "They have her."

* * *

The horde marched on. Dothraki men sat atop their horses, whipping their slaves as they and their families moved through the arid valley. They numbered in the thousands, a truly formidable force, and yet this Khalasar was only one of many. All across the vastness of Essos, the Dothraki Khalasars ranged, terrorizing whole cities and kingdoms.

Daenerys Targaryen grunted as the ropes binding her hands were tugged, forcing her forward. Not two days ago, she had been in Daznak's Pit, overseeing the Great Games.

Then, the Sons of the Harpy had attacked. She and her advisors had been surrounded, only for Drogon to miraculously appear. Even his awesome power had not been enough, and Daenerys had done the impossible by mounting and riding her eldest child out of the pit. She had remembered the sight of Drakon Blackfyre riding his own Dragon, and it had inspired her to do the same.

Drogon had carried her far from Meereen, into the wilderness where he had made a nest of sorts. But he was too weak, his injuries too fresh, to take her back. Daenerys had set off on her own, only to be surrounded and captured by the Dothraki who now dragged her along.

Her dress was tarnished and covered in dirt, her hair unkempt, her lips dry and cracked, and her feet sore and raw from so much walking.

She tripped over a rock, and the Bloodrider who held her ropes whipped her. She grunted, standing up straight as the Bloodrider and his companion laughed as her discomfort. "Maybe she saw a ghost," the first one said. "My friend's mother saw a ghost and her hair turned white."

"Pink people are afraid of the sun. It burns their skin. This one stands too long in the sun and her hair goes white."

"You think she's got white pussy hair too? You ever been with a girl with white pussy hair?"

"Only when I was fucking your grandma."

The first Bloodrider chuckled, then made kissing sounds at Daenerys, who could only sneer in disgust at their coarseness. She decided not to let them know she understood everything they were saying; that was something worth saving for dramatic effect, which she could use to her advantage.

"I'll ask Khal Moro for a night with you. What do you think?"

"Pretty eyes, but she's an idiot," the second one said.

"She doesn't have to be smart to get fucked in the ass."

"I like to talk when I'm finished. Otherwise, we might as well be dogs."

The Bloodriders laughed as the Khalasar kept marching between the tall, dry hills.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

"And then, Edwyn turns to me and says 'You never told me Ser Rycherd was bald!'" Margaery said. She and Sansa both laughed at the story, barely able to breathe. "It was the first time I'd ever seen him so embarrassed. His cheeks reddened like fresh apples! I just wanted to take a bite." She emphasized her point by biting into an apple from the impromptu meal, giving Edric a lusty stare.

Edric felt himself rapidly 'rising to the occasion', and started chugging his mug of ale. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said "After going through a war, you would expect my brother to not be embarrassed by anything."

Margaery smiled. "I tend to have that effect on some people." She looked at Sansa and reached across the table to take her hand. "I've missed you, Sansa. I truly did enjoy our time together."

"As did I. You were the only real friend I had at the capital."

"I'm glad. It was so fortunate that Edric invited me here. It's given us a chance to reconnect, now that all the awful wars and the pain and suffering are in the past."

Sansa smiled. "I'm glad, too."

Edric then stood and said "If you will excuse me, my ladies, I am due for another session with Masyn. I will see you later."

As he walked away, he heard Margaery say "Come, show me the Godswood! I do enjoy a good walk while I converse, although this child is making that more difficult every week."

* * *

Sansa and Margaery walked, arm in arm, as they entered the Godswood. It was among the most expansive of its kind in Westeros, since the Andals had burned most of the sacred Weirwood Trees during their invasion centuries ago. As always, Brienne followed a few steps behind Sansa, ever-vigilant for threats even in her own home.

"It's so lovely here," Margaery remarked. "In Highgarden, the only snows I ever see are in winter, and even then they are nothing like the snows up here. There's just something magical about it, don't you think?"

Sansa looked around the Godswood, which was covered in a blanket of snow as flakes gently drifted towards the ground. "Living here takes away the wonder of it all. It becomes normal."

The two women came to stand beneath the Weirwood Tree itself. Margaery placed her hands on Sansa's shoulders and said "I want you to be honest with me, now that it's just us girls."

"Of course."

"Are you happy being married to Edric? Does he treat you well?"

Sansa tried to find the words, and eventually said "Y-yes, of course. He's one of the sweetest, most caring men I've ever known."

Margaery smiled. "That's good to hear. I only ask because you've been married for half a year, and…" She cocked an eyebrow, giving her a suggestive smirk.

It took Sansa a moment to decipher her expression. "Oh." She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Thus far, she had only discussed this with Edric a few times in private. It felt strange to broach such a personal topic with someone else, even someone as caring as Margaery.

"It's perfectly alright, you know. No one is forcing you to do anything, not anymore."

"I know that," Sansa said. "It's just…"

"What? Please, you can tell me anything."

"I spent most of my childhood wanting to be married to a gallant lord or prince and spend the rest of my life in perfect bliss while having his children."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know, but after my father was executed, and my mother, my sister, and my brothers were killed, I started to see the world for what it really was: a cruel place where dreams die and bad people make good people suffer with no consequence. All the beatings, the humiliation, the torture, the arranged marriages, it all became normal. I accepted it as part of everyday life. Then, just when I'd gotten used to all that, a new king swooped in with two Dragons and killed all the bad men while his sweet, wonderful son took me home and treated me with respect and love."

Sansa felt her eyes water with tears, and she wiped them away with her glove. Margaery smiled sympathetically and said "And now you struggle to accept that the world might not be as cruel as you once thought."

"That's just it: my life now is happy and perfect in nearly every way, and it's almost too much to bear."

"Oh sweet girl," Margaery said. "Of all the people I've ever known, you are the one who most deserves to be happy. I only regret that happiness is something foreign and strange to you. But the horrors of your past are gone, the ones responsible dead and buried. You can't let the memory of them control the rest of your life."

"My lady," Brienne said. The armoured woman jerked her chin, and Sansa and Margaery turned to see Edric walking towards them, fresh from his most recent training session.

"You just need to let someone in, someone who can make you happy again," Margaery told her. "Who is that?" she asked as someone else approached Edric.

"Maester Pyne," Sansa replied.

The Maester held something out to Edric, a letter by the look of it. He had a grave expression on his face, and Sansa sensed something was wrong. Edric took the letter and read it over. Even from a distance, Sansa could see that it contained something that horrified him. He was still for a long moment, as still as a statue, then he dropped the letter as he stumbled away, back towards the castle.

Sansa and Margaery exchanged worried glances and walked over to where the Maester stood. He bent down and picked up the letter, handing it to Sansa. "My lady," he said, grimly, before walking away.

"What is it?" Margaery asked as Sansa read the letter.

"Edric's father has been killed."

For a long, terrible moment, silence hung over them like a cloak. The potential ramifications were enormous, but in that moment, Sansa found herself thinking only about Edric. He worshipped his father, and she could only imagine just how devastated he was.

"Brienne, please escort Lady Margaery to her chamber."

"Of course. My lady?"

They both walked away, leaving Sansa alone. She made her way back to the castle, passing by the occasional guard or servant. Arriving at the lord's chamber, she paused. Edric was crying. Cautiously opening the door, Sansa saw him sitting in the far corner, his face wet with tears. She walked over to him and knelt, pulling him in close. Sansa wrapped her arms around him tightly as he did the same, burying his head into her shoulder.

He allowed himself to openly sob as she held him.

"Shh, it's okay," she said to him. "I'm here." He leaned back, his eyes red from crying, and sniffled. Sansa leaned in close, allowing herself to feel absolute trust in him, and kissed him gently on the lips.

He pulled back, confusion etched on his face. "W-wait, I—"

Sansa silenced him with a finger on his lips. "You've been so wonderful to me, Edric, giving me every comfort I could ever want." She kissed him again, and this time he did not pull back. "Let me comfort you."

He stared at her in disbelief, then pressed his lips against hers. Their kiss became more forceful, more passionate. They kissed for what felt like an eternity, taking each other in for the first time. Without breaking contact, they both stood at the same time and walked over to the bed. They began frantically shedding each other's clothes, nearly tearing her dress and his shirt. Edric untied the final bit of lace, and Sansa's dress slipped down to the floor, leaving her completely naked.

Edric shed his shirt and his breeches, and she appreciated his toned, muscular body. He then took a step forward and kissed her once more.

This time, it was gentler between them as they slowed down to a pace they were comfortable with. Sansa started to remove the black bandage over his left eye, but he grabbed her hand, stopping her. She said "Don't worry. There's no need to be afraid."

He was hesitant, not moving his hand, but as he stared into her striking blue eyes, she saw that his remaining eye was filled with nervousness and a deep vulnerability. Edric lowered his hand, and she removed the black cloth. He looked down at the floor, ashamed of his deformity. Sansa placed her hand on his cheek and turned him so he was looking back at her. She smiled and gave him another kiss, reassuring him.

Edric, with a hand on her back, lowered her onto the bed. The two of them were about to cross a threshold, something she had only ever dreamed of and dreaded her whole life. They stared into each other's eyes, and he said "I've…this will be my first time."

With a smile, she said "Mine, too."

Taking a deep breath, he gave a single thrust of his hips. He and Sansa both gasped, staying absolutely still. They were now one flesh, truly joined as husband and wife.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

Jayne screamed as the pain tore through her once again. She was sitting on her bed, drenched in sweat. Adrya wiped her brow and cheeks with a cloth while her other handmaidens brought hot water and fresh towels. Maester Coleman sat by the foot of the bed, hard at work.

"Yes, there it is. This child will be born soon."

Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Jayne said "No, it's too soon. There must be something you can do."

"I'm afraid not, my lady," the Master replied. "The only thing to do now is ensure you and your child both survive the birth." He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then said to one of the handmaidens "Give her Milk of the Poppy, for the pain."

Jayne forced herself to concentrate through the pain upon hearing those words. Every fear about her pregnancy was screaming to the forefront of her thoughts: memories of her mother, sheets stained with blood after she and Jayne's unborn siblings had died. Jayne had laid awake for many a night, worrying about the health and safety of her own child, and fate seemed keen on challenging her at every turn.

The handmaiden brought Milk of the Poppy, but before she could administer it, Jayne swatted it out of the girl's hands. It shattered on the floor. "No! I will not allow anything to threaten my—" She was cut off as a fresh bout of agony ripped through her body like a spear being thrust into her.

"The contractions are quickening!" Maester Colemon noted. "Breathe, my lady, breathe!"

Jayne felt someone climbing onto the bed behind her, then felt the familiar, welcome presence of Adrya. Her handmaiden took her hands and steadied her. "Just breathe, my lady, this will all be over soon." She guided Jayne through the breaths, and she forced herself to concentrate on them.

"How could this happen so soon?" one of the handmaidens asked.

"News of her father's death," the Maester replied. "It is rare for birth to be triggered by emotional trauma, but I have seen it before. We must hope that it does not kill them both."

For an agonizing eternity, Jayne endured the regular assaults of pain. Maester Colemon was correct; the contractions were quickening. Soon enough, her child would be born, and she promised herself that they would both live.

Her father had always taught her that destiny was of one's own making. The gods had no say in her affairs. She was the daughter of the Black Dragon, the Lady of one of the most powerful families in Westeros. She was descended from kings, conquerors, legends, and most importantly, Dragonlords.

There was no challenge she could not overcome.

Finally, after a never-ending torture, the end was finally in sight. "I can see the head," Maester Colemon said, his hands covered in birthing fluids. "Your child is coming, my lady."

Adrya squeezed Jayne's hands. "Soon enough, my lady. Soon enough."

"I need you to push as hard as you can, my lady. Your child is waiting to meet you. Push!"

With all her remaining strength, all her remaining mental fortitude, Jayne forced herself to push. Clenching her teeth so hard she thought she might shatter them, she screamed as the life she held inside her emerged.

Jayne collapsed into Adrya's grip, panting from the exertion. She swallowed, then asked "M-my child…is it alright?"

The Maester was silent, and she lacked the strength to crane her neck. All her worst fears coalesced into a single, terrible sensation that cut into her very core as the sight of her dead child formed in her mind's eye.

It was instantly shattered by a weak, but shrill, cry sounded in the chamber.

The Maester and the gathered handmaidens breathed a collective sigh of relief, and the former said "My lady, you have a son." He held her son up so she could see him; he was so small, fitting into the Maester's palm, red-faced and writhing as if emerging from a deep slumber. He looked so frail, as if a breath would make him crumble and disappear. Jayne began to laugh as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. For now, at least, her fears had been for naught.

There was a commotion outside, and a familiar voice said "Out of my way! Move!" The doors were flung open, and Andar appeared, still garbed in his armour. His hair clung to his brow from sweat, and he appeared to be out of breath, likely from running all the way up the castle. "Jayne!"

He joined her, sitting on the edge of the bed as he kissed her. Despite their lack of emotional entanglement, Jayne found herself glad for his presence.

Andar looked over at the child, a smile forming on his bearded face. "We have a son!"

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

The Small Council gathered, as it always did, with some minor differences in the members present. Her husband's seat was empty, along with those of Samwell Royce, Randyll Tarly, and Loras Tyrell, as they were fighting in the east. Bronn was absent, as Visenya did not wish to reveal his appointment as the new Lord Commander of the City Watch. After all, it would be unfortunate if the traitor discovered her plot. The content of the meeting was standard and mundane, with each council member giving a report on their particular sphere of influence.

Then, the messenger came.

A raven had been sent by Edwyn, who must have been freed from captivity. Everyone on the Small Council sensed that it brought grave news, as the old expression 'Dark wings, dark words' had borne true enough times to warrant suspicion of every raven-delivered message.

Rona opened it first, and the colour had drained from her face so fast that it sent a chill down everyone's spine. The Master of Whisperers handed the letter to the queen, her movements rigid and yet fragile at the same time.

"No!" Visenya exclaimed, her eyes watering with tears. Her fingers trembled as she read the letter's contents. Her mouth opened, but no words came out, only a strained croak of despair.

"The king…" Rona said, her throat sounding dry. "Is dead."

The others looked shocked by the news, while Olenna Tyrell only shook her head.

"This is…this is terrible!" Mace Tyrell exclaimed.

Simon took a sip of his wine and said "It was bound to happen eventually."

"We need to ensure that the realm is secure in the coming days," Rona said, folding her hands in her lap. "With King Drakon dying so soon into his reign, I fear that others will seek to take advantage."

Visenya took shuddering breaths as tears streaked down her face. "He can't be gone!" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rona glanced at the others present and said "Your Grace, we must prepare."

"Get out." At first, there was some confusion, and no one moved from their seats. "Get out!" Visenya shrieked, standing as her face contorted into an expression of rage.

The Small Council took the hint and hurriedly made their way out of the chamber. Only Ser Harras remained, standing behind her. Visenya collapsed into her seat and held her head in her hand, sobbing. What would she do without her brother?

* * *

 _ **Casterly Rock…**_

Harys Swyft, after overseeing yet another day of the siege, had retired to his tent for the night. The only thing that seemed to soothe his constant frustration these days was a glass of wine and a good night's sleep. His dreams were troubled that night, his mind conjuring all manner of disturbing images.

"Lord Swyft! Lord Swyft!"

He awoke with a start, seeing one of his guards in his tent. "What is it? What's wrong?" Just then, he heard the commotion outside. Men shouted and cried out as steel clanged and horses whinnied.

"It's chaos out here, m'lord. We have to get you to safety!" the guard said.

"Yes, yes," Lord Swyft agreed. Getting out of bed, he was ushered outside. It was the middle of the night, and the only light came from the torchlight of the camp. As he gazed out at his army, he saw that several tents were now aflame. Many of his soldiers appeared to have gone mad as they fought one another.

"Come, this way, m'lord."

Lord Swyft cowered as his guards formed a protective circle around him. They moved through the encampment, fending off the occasional attacker as they sought their horses. After passing by a flaming cart and several corpses, they came to an intersecting pathway. Just before they reached it, however, a rider emerged from nowhere and smashed into the lead guard.

Lord Swyft cried out in terror as the man's lifeless corpse fell to the ground.

The remaining guards urged him forward. Lord Swyft looked towards Casterly Rock, and though his vision was lessened by the dark of night, he thought he saw a mass of soldiers emerging from the Lion's Mouth. "Impossible," he said to himself.

One of his guards gurgled, and the man turned to reveal a crossbow bolt in his throat. Lord Swyft shouted in terror as the corpse fell. Two more of his guards were shot.

From behind a nearby tent, an impossibly tall man appeared, garbed in steel armour, coloured light blue, with a black flame sigil on his breastplate. He towered above all others, but looked to be much thinner than one might expect, as if he were only skin and bones. In his hand he wielded a bastard sword with a rippling design to the blade. The tall man swung his blade, and it sliced through the armour of one of the guards, killing him instantly. He slashed the throat of another, and then kicked a third to the ground as the final standing guard was struck by a crossbow bolt.

A horse's whinny drew Lord Swyft's attention, and he turned to see a rider approaching him. The man wielded twin swords, and used them to kill a soldier who tried to attack him. The rider kept coming; he wore the same light blue armour with a black flame on the chest piece. It was stained with blood, speaking to the man's combat prowess as a pair of mounted soldiers charged towards him with spears. He did not turn back, however, keeping true to his course. The soldiers thrust with their spears, but the rider leaned back against his horse, avoiding the attacks as he slashed both men with his swords.

They fell off their horses, dead.

The rider soon reached Lord Swyft. He turned to flee, but the tall man stopped him, pointing his rippled sword to his chest. The old man had no choice but to stay where he was as the rider dismounted. He was quite tall, but not as much as his companion, but they both appeared lithe and strong, as if cast from the same mold.

"Lord Swyft, I presume," the rider said.

Lord Swyft's eyes widened with shock. "Y-you are…a woman?"

She chuckled, sheathing both of her swords. "I'll try not to act so insulted."

The tall man with the rippled sword said "It must be all that armour, Sae. No one can recognize you in it."

Lord Swyft swallowed nervously as a crowd of soldiers, his soldiers, gathered around them. They made no move to attack, however, meaning their loyalties had shifted. The woman turned to them and said "Looks like we've caught ourselves a rooster, lads! Although this one acts more like a frightened hen." Her words elicited derisive laughter from the gathered soldiers.

Looking back at the woman with a realization, he said "You are Sae Darklight!"

"He isn't so simple after all, is he, Gae?"

The tall man snorted.

"Yes, he is," a familiar voice said. Several soldiers parted, and Ser Addam Marbrand appeared, his sword wet with blood and brains.

"Ser Addam?"

The knight looked at him with disgust. "You were always pathetic. Drakon Blackfyre massacred the Lannisters, our true liege lords, and yet you were too weak to do what was required."

Sae Darklight casually walked in a circle around them. "Ser Addam is now in service to my family. I hope you don't mind, but I had to take control of your army; they seemed very eager to switch their allegiance to a family deserving of it. The ones who wouldn't fall in line were…dealt with."

Lord Swyft sputtered as he sought to find the proper words. "B-but, but why? Why do you rebel against the king's family?"

The tall woman regarded him for a moment, as if deciding something. She then said "What do you know of House Blackfyre's ancestry, my lord?"

"They are descended from Daemon Blackfyre, a legitimized bastard of Aegon IV."

"Correct," she said, crossing her arms. "Of course, Aegon IV had many, many bastards he fathered with princesses, noblewomen, and commoners alike. One of these women was Merelai, a Volantene noble sent to Aegon's court as a diplomat. She bore him a daughter, Saernys. Merelai was said to dabble in alchemy and sorcery, and when Aegon cast her aside for another woman, she was so distraught that she burned herself in black flames. Saernys grew up to become an assassin of some renown, preferring to use alchemical bombs and poisons. For this, she earned the name Darklyte."

Gae came to stand beside her, standing as tall as a Giant of legend in Lord Swyft's eyes.

"That is why our family, House Darklight, took the sigil of a black flame, to remember our ancestor." Sae and Gae unstrapped and removed their helmets, and Lord Swyft gasped as he beheld their features.

Sae might have had a beautiful face, once, but it had clearly been hardened by years of toil and combat. Her skin was lightly tanned, and her short brown hair was pulled back. Her most striking feature, however, was her bright violet eyes, which shone like otherworldly beacons in the night.

Gae's face was even more striking. His features were sharp and angular, without any visible blemishes on his fair, perfect skin. His hair was silver, which framed a pair of bright violet eyes that stared down at Lord Swyft.

"My true name is Saernys Darklyte," the tall woman said. "Our family had to go into hiding when the Blackfyres rebelled against the Targaryens, but we have waited long enough. The Blackfyre king is dead, and the time has come for the Darklytes to assume their rightful place on the Iron Throne." She crouched in front of Lord Swyft and said "I really must thank you for bringing such a large force to besiege the Rock. It will serve us well in the coming days. That is why I am going to let you leave here."

Lord Swyft prostrated himself before her. "Thank you, thank you!"

Sae Darklight, or rather, 'Saernys Darklyte', turned to Ser Addam and said "Send him on his way."

The knight drove his sword into the old man's back.

"The king is dead!" Saernys said, raising her voice so everyone could hear. "The time has come for a new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Who's with us?" The army gave a collective shout, raising their swords in the air as Sae and Gae nodded to each other. The die was now cast, and Westeros would soon change in their favour.

No Fire without Shadow.

* * *

 **Come one, come all, and welcome to Season 6!**

 **I am very much looking forward to continuing this story, and I hope you will enjoy it as well! With any luck, this will help your (and my) craving for more Game of Thrones, as 2019 has, regrettably, not arrived yet.**

 **Another bit of good news: I have now completed my undergraduate degree at university! I admit, I'll miss it, as the last five years have been among the best of my life, but it's time for me to move on to bigger and better things. I now have all the time in the world to write, which makes me very, very happy indeed!**

 **I want to thank the wonderful Lord Pyrus for submitting the characters of Sae and Gae for this story. I look forward to exploring their arc, and I hope they will add to your enjoyment of this story.**

 **One change I'm making is to compress the different POV sections into longer chapters. This will lengthen the time between postings and lessen the overall number of chapters in a season, but it should provide more oomph and, perhaps, make each chapter feel like an episode of the show.**

 **As always, please leave a review!**

 **Guest: I always wished the show would include the Golden Company, which is one of the many things I look forward to in Season 8. Let's just say there are plans to include them. The primary advantage of text vs television is that I don't have to follow budgetary constraints, so I can have all the armies/battles I want.**

 **Coffee Targaryen: I hope this satisfies your post-cliffhanger withdrawal.**

 **Guest: I agree with the Martin thing. That's one of my main beefs with the series overall. It only follows that a story set in Martin's world would have no one be safe, including the main character.**

 **92: As smart as Tyrion is, sometimes his emotions do get the better of him. And one of my goals for this story is for people to actually work through the many, MANY problems pervading the world. It's going to require a lot of effort though, so in the meantime, violence.**

 **BriEva: I share your love of the Starks, as does most of the fanbase. I love the Direwolves, and I was really upset when Nymeria rejected Arya on the show to live in the wild. While I understand that she had come to thrive in the wild, I still wanted her to have a more active role in the story, and Samwell was a good fit for her. They were both outcasts, and Samwell felt a certain kinship through that. Also, pets can be one's best friend, as the old saying for dogs goes. Jon is one character I am very conscious of, and I'm continually working on what his arc will be. At the very least, he and Edric will clash over Edric being a Southerner who married his sister (from Jon's view, Sansa had no choice but to marry him). At worst, Edric will fill the role Ramsay Bolton played in the show of Jon's rival for rule of the North. I'm still deciding on how all that will play out. Edric is a decent man at heart, and he would never order the deaths of women, children, or the elderly. He'd kill the ones who would fight in battle if he had no choice, but for the rest he would simply escort them back across the Wall. He would want to work out a deal, for Sansa's sake, but as a medieval liege lord, he is at least partially beholden to the wishes of his bannermen. Stay tuned!**

 **tag supporter: I'm glad you enjoyed that! I've always enjoyed Olenna as a fun, clever character. Her straightforward, biting manner is very refreshing in the backstabbing world of Westeros.**

 **Guest: Westeros seems to think that he's dead. For the moment, that's the main problem, as there is now a power vacuum to fill.**


	28. Capta Dracones

_"I love you, Drakon Blackfyre."_

 _"Never Forgive, Never Forget."_

 _"We share the same father, but not the same mother. My name is Visenya Blackfyre."_

 _"I want our family to rise to glory…I want you to sit on the Iron Throne."_

 _"I'm not doing all of this for glory or power; I'm doing it to fulfill a promise I made to Rhaegar, to avenge the deaths of his family and to make our father's House one that is not spoken of with contempt or distorted truths."_

 _"You all know me as Sebastion Stormheart, but my true name is Drakon Blackfyre, son of Maelys I, and descendent of Aegon the Conqueror! The blood of Old Valyria is in my veins, and I am the rightful king!"_

 _"You will die for this! You are a usurper."_

 _"Edric!"_

 _"I'm terrified of having this child, father. I lie awake at night, remembering how mother died giving birth."_

 _"You are my daughter, my eldest child, which means that you are the descendent of kings. You are Blood of the Dragon, which means that you will get through this, I know it. You and your brothers are strong, and there is no challenge you cannot overcome."_

 _"If there is anything I've learned, happiness is something that you have to take for yourself."_

 _"Please, I beg you, do not let yourself turn into the monster your father was!"_

 _"I'm sorry, Ser Barristan. I never wanted any of this."_

 _"Though I never had children of my own, I think of you as the son I might have had in another life. Though I was bound by my king's command to foster you, I became bound by love more than duty."_

 _"Edwyn!"_

 _"Father! No!"_

 _"_ _ **REMEMBER YOUR PROMISE, DRAKON!**_ _"_

* * *

 _ **The Dothraki Sea…**_

Drakon Blackfyre opened his eyes.

He instinctively tried to breathe, but found that he could not. Turning onto his side, he shoved his winged war helm off and wretched what felt like buckets of water onto the ground. Once his lungs were clear, he inhaled deeply. His throat felt raw, and it burned with every breath, but he ignored the pain.

Craning his neck, Drakon saw that he was half beached on the shores of a river. The cold water rushed over his legs, drowning out any other noise. His every movement felt laboured from the weight of his black plate armour.

The sky overhead was bright with little wisps of cloud, and the air was still. From the position of the sun, he knew that much time had passed since he fell.

When he attempted to move his right arm, a lance of pain stabbed through his shoulder. The shaft of an arrow was buried there, between two armour plates. Gritting his teeth, Drakon grabbed it and yanked it from his shoulder with a grunt. He tossed it into the river.

Drakon remembered everything about his siege of Meereen, and the battle with Daenerys' Dragons danced in his vision. He had been struck by an arrow and fell from Rhaegon's back. The last thing he saw was the river rushing towards him.

He pondered the dream he had been having before awakening. Drakon recognized them as memories, seemingly drawn at random from the breadth of his life. He had seen Visenya, his children, himself, and…Ser Barristan. The reminder of the old knight brought tears to Drakon's face, and he quietly sobbed at the memory of killing the only true father he had ever known. That image would likely haunt Drakon for the rest of his days, such as they were. The sad thing was that it was only the latest in a long line of tragedies that befouled his life.

Drakon turned onto his stomach and began rising to his feet. He paused as he remembered the final voice that had spoken immediately before he had awoken. It was intensely familiar, and yet he could not place its owner.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves. Drakon looked up and saw a group of ten horsemen riding towards the river.

From their garb, he guessed them to be Dothraki. The river he had fallen into flowed northwards, if he recalled correctly. If it had taken him far enough, then he was currently in the Dothraki Sea, about to be at the mercy of whatever Khalasar these riders belonged to. He attempted to stand, but quickly collapsed, too weak to get on his feet. As Drakon felt darkness overcoming him, he saw the Dothraki riding up to him.

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

 _The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,_

 _and her kisses were warmer than spring._

 _But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,_

 _and its kiss was a terrible thing._

 _The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,_

 _in a voice that was sweet as a—"_

"That's enough of that," Obara Sand muttered, sounding both bored and frustrated at the same time.

Bronn sighed as they walked along the street. "Listen lass, you need to lighten up. A good song can brighten your whole day."

"I am not here to sing. I am here to kill the queen's enemies."

"Besides, what if singing gets us captured or killed by the Sparrows?" Nymeria Sand asked from Bronn's other side.

"Then our job would be done that much quicker," Bronn replied.

"I don't understand why we are doing this all alone," Nymeria added. "You are the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Why can't we have even fifty Goldcloaks to assist us?"

"Because right now, any one of those little gold twats could be workin' for the High Sparrow, and the last thing I need for my health is to end up like Ser fucking Hugo. I don't trust any of 'em, so I don't use 'em, at least for the time being."

Obara snorted. "Are you saying you trust us?" she asked, her tone laden with sarcasm.

"Course not. But I'm being paid to work with you, so that's good enough."

The trio turned a corner onto another street. Flea Bottom was almost too flowery of a description for the capital's poorest slum. It stank of shit and piss worse than any other place in King's Landing, and everyone who lived in it was dirty, poor, and desperate at the best of times. With the Sparrows out in full force, the streets were even more dangerous, especially since a large portion of the City Watch were supporting the religious fanatics.

Bronn and the two eldest Sand Snakes spotted a group of Sparrows walking across the intersecting street ahead. The trio hid in an alley, each gripping their respective weapons. Bronn cautiously peered around the corner and saw that the Sparrows were not coming their way. When they were out of sight, he gestured to Obara and Nymeria, and they quietly began to follow the Sparrows.

They walked for some time, staying hidden as they observed the group of bare-footed fanatics leaving Flea Bottom and entering the Street of Steel. "Now what could they be doing in there?" Bronn asked no one in particular.

"Can we just kill them already?" Obara asked.

"Not yet, lass. First we need to find out what they're up to."

The Sparrows eventually stopped at one of the lesser armourers on the street. They walked inside, and after a few minutes, came out wielding axes and swords.

"That looks like good-quality steel," Bronn said. "Now how would people who don't have any worldly possessions afford weapons like those?"

"Now can we kill them?" Obara repeated.

Bronn thought it over. "Now."

"But leave one alive," Nymeria added. "We need someone to interrogate."

The trio stepped out of hiding behind their quarry. Obara was the first to act, hurling her spear into the back of a Sparrow. They turned around, and Nymeria drew two daggers and flung them into the chests of two more. Only three were left standing, and Bronn deftly slashed one in the throat before stabbing another in the side like a pig.

Nymeria shoved the last one against a wall, holding a dagger to his throat.

"Now then," Bronn said, sheathing his sword. "How's about you tell us where you got the coin to buy these weapons."

"I will tell you nothing, Sellsword," the Sparrow spat, a holy fire in his eyes.

"Alright. Maybe what we're looking for is on one of your friends, yeah?" Bronn pointed to one. "Him?"

Nothing.

He pointed to another. "What about this one?"

Nothing.

A third. "Him?"

"That's the one," Nymeria said.

"How do you know?" Obara asked as she pulled her spear from the fourth Sparrow's corpse.

"He looked at that one. He tried to hide it, but he didn't do a very good job."

Bronn shrugged. "Good enough." He crouched down and felt along the third Sparrow's body. "Here's something," he said, reaching into the dead man's sleeve. Bronn pulled out a rolled up letter. Unfurling it, he read its contents. "It says here that the Sparrows can have any weapon from that armourer free of charge, as it's been paid for."

"By whom?" Nymeria asked.

Bronn showed the two Sand Snakes the letter. "Mace Tyrell, Hand of the King."

* * *

 _ **Crakehall…**_

Saernys Darklyte walked past a group of soldiers eating by a fire. Crimson tents covered the area outside Crakehall, as the army had made its camp after marching across the Westerlands for a week. Thousands of soldiers followed the Darklyte family, and with any luck, this was only the beginning.

She wore a simple blue riding jacket over a black shirt and blue pants. The soldiers were in the midst of stripping their armour and erecting their tents. Everyone was in need of some rest.

Finally reaching her tent, Sae stepped through the flap and untied her sword belt. She tossed it on the ground and collapsed onto her bed, groaning from relief. Her feet dangled over the end, but she did not particularly care. All that mattered was having a good night's sleep.

Gae stepped through the tent flap, still in his armour. "Rebellion becoming too tiring?"

Sae forced herself to get out of bed. "How many?"

"500 men just arrived from Sarsfield. That brings us up to 14,000."

Walking over to her desk, Sae said "Not a bad start." She looked down at the map of Westeros, her violet eyes sweeping over the Seven Kingdoms.

"By the way, a raven came. From Lannisport."

Sae looked up at her brother. Since childhood, she had always been irritated by just how much taller Gae always seemed to be. The younger sibling should not be the tallest. "Another message from father?"

He held up a scroll, a dry smile on his lips. "What else?"

"He's certainly eager for his throne," she muttered, taking it. The flame sigil in black wax was becoming an all-too familiar sight over the last several days.

"Some would say impatient."

"Our family has waited a long time for this, Gae," Sae reminded him. "Father barely had time to plan after Tywin Lannister's death before Drakon Blackfyre took the Iron Throne."

"Say what you will about the Blackfyres, but Drakon certainly earned the throne."

"He brought stability to a realm that was too used to tearing itself apart. I would even say Westeros would have prospered under his reign." Sae read the letter, her lips moving as she did so. "Father and Kae have moved back into our estate in Lannisport."

"It's a good thing it wasn't burned down in the sack."

"Yes. They are doing well, and send their best wishes for our campaign."

"Father also sent this," Gae said, holding out something wrapped in fine cloth.

Sae furrowed her brow in confusion, then her mouth opened in shock. "Is that…?"

Gae smirked. "A rider delivered it an hour ago."

Sae reached for the weapon her brother held, but pulled her hand back for a moment. She felt tingles rippling across her skin as she wrapped her fingers around the sword. With utter reverence, she pulled the cloth back to reveal the fine, black leather sheath with silver filigree creating an intertwining pattern. The sword's handle was black, as well, with a Dragon's clawed hand grasping a large pearl at the pommel.

"Dark Drinker, after all these years," Sae whispered. "Father used to show it to me, every day, since I could walk. He would say 'Saernys, this sword belongs to our family because it is our destiny to rule the Seven Kingdoms. One day, it will be yours. You must prove that you can be worthy of it."

"He used to give me the same lecture," Gae said. "He always did love giving us lectures."

Sae gripped the handle and unsheathed the sword just enough to see the telltale ripples of Valyrian Steel. Her lips curled into a wide, satisfied smile. "So, what's the state of our fleet?"

"That's easy: we have no fleet."

Sae huffed. "No ships? None at all?"

Gae shook his head. "Whatever ships Tywin Lannister rebuilt after the Greyjoy Rebellion, they were all burned by Drakon Blackfyre and his Dragons."

"We need allies, brother. I can only do so much with one army. Drakon Blackfyre may be dead, but his children and allies outnumber us."

"Don't worry, dear sister; I'll find us allies. Just give me time."

"I'll hold you to that," she said with a smirk. "House Mallister controls the western shores. They have the largest fleet."

"Lord Jason will never join us," Gae said. "Drakon Blackfyre rescued his son from the Twins and liberated his home from the Freys. The Mallisters are loyal to the Blackfyres."

"Then we eliminate them as a threat."

Gae arched an eyebrow. "Are you thinking what I think you are?"

In response, Sae grabbed a nearby pouch. Opening it, she scooped a small amount of what appeared to be a fine black sand. She blew it onto the candle at the corner of her desk, and the sand flashed as a bright black light. "The Alchemists' Guild have Wildfire, and we have this. Make sure you don't waste it."

"No worry there. But that still leaves us with a distinct lack of allies, especially those with a fleet."

"Actually, I've heard a very interesting rumour that, if true, presents a great opportunity for us," Sae said. She placed her hand on the map, over the Iron Islands.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

"How is he, Maester?" Jayne asked.

Maester Colemon clasped his hands together. "He is very weak, my lady. He came into the world well before his time. I am doing all I can, but right now his life is in the hands of the Seven."

Jayne stared down at her son. He was lying in his crib, asleep, blissfully unaware just how precarious his tiny little life was. She gently stroked his head, feeling the tiny strands of hair between her fingers. Never in her entire life had she felt such pure, unconditional love for anyone else. In that very moment, she would have happily given her life for his without a second's hesitation.

"No."

"I-I beg your pardon, my lady?" Maester Colemon asked.

"His life is not in the hands of the Seven. They are in the hands of men, your hands." She stared into his eyes, taking slow steps towards him. "And that is why you will do everything in your power to ensure that he lives. If not, then I shall see to it that you are thrown from the Moon Door as an example to the Maester that replaces you."

The Maester was visibly shaking at the intensity of her words and her stare. Carellen Stokeworth tightly gripped one of his shoulders to emphasize the point as Jayne came within a foot of the man.

"You will devote every waking hour to my son's care. You will send for every resource and every Maester from here to the Arbor so that my son will live. Do you understand?"

He gulped, his forehead glimmering with sweat. "Yes, of course, my lady."

"Good," Jayne said, affecting a smile. "Now, I'm sure you have many ravens to send, and I wouldn't want to keep you."

Carellen Stokeworth released him, and he bowed before rushing out of the room.

Adrya brought Jayne a glass of water, and she smiled in thanks to her handmaiden. She turned to look at Andar, who stood out on the balcony. A light, chill breeze caused the drapes to ripple, and Jayne told Adrya "Would you get more blankets for my son?" As Adrya left, Jayne walked over to Andar's side and said "I'm pleased to see that you were victorious over the Hill Tribes."

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "The tribes may be vicious, but they lack any sort of strategy. In battle, each of them charge into the fray in search of kills and glory. There is no cohesion, no use of tactics."

"My husband, the grand strategist," Jayne said, kissing him on the cheek.

He probably did not even realize that he puffed out his chest at her words. "Yes. There was something troubling about them this time, though."

"Oh?"

"Normally, the tribesmen wield simple stone or iron weapons, but this time they fought with steel. Castle-forged steel."

Jayne frowned. "How could those savages have attained such weapons?"

Andar replied "Perhaps they managed to raid one of the lesser keeps. It didn't help them; once we slaughtered most of their kin, the rest fled back into their caves."

Jayne was not so convinced. Poorly equipped tribal warriors could never hope to raid a castle, even a small, out of the way castle. Her instincts told her that someone influential, a knight or a lord, provided the Hill Tribes with steel weapons. If Andar had been killed in battle, then Lord Royce's only heir would be her son. Jayne felt a deathly chill pass over her, separate from the wind, as she remembered Malcom's warning about Oswell Kettleblack and one of his sons. They sought to murder her and her son, and that would have been much easier if Andar were killed fighting.

Jayne knew that she had to draw Ser Oswell to the Eyrie in order to confirm her suspicions. Racking her brain for ideas, she felt struck be inspiration as she said to Andar "I have the most wonderful idea! We must host a Tourney."

"A Tourney?"

"Yes. Your son has just been born; he will become Lord of the Vale someday. And you have just triumphed over the barbaric Hill Tribes. Both warrant a grand celebration, and a Tourney would be a wonderful way to bring the people of the Vale together in joy and unity."

Andar was silent as he thought it over. As he possessed a highly martial outlook, the idea likely appealed to him.

"I'm sure your father would approve if his son and heir spoke with him and suggested such an idea. He would surely applaud your initiative."

Andar smiled. "Perhaps I will speak to him of this." He kissed her on the lips and said "Thank you, wife, you have been most helpful." He turned and walked back inside, and Jayne heard the door open and close a moment later.

She smirked at the mountainous expanse before her. "Of course." Jayne walked over to her son's crib and began humming a song her mother had sung to her as a child. "Soon, my love," she whispered to him. "Soon, everyone who wants to harm you will be gone."

* * *

 _ **The Dothraki Sea…**_

Samwell Royce tore a chunk from his bacon. The campfire crackled as the sky began to brighten with the arrival of morning. He sat on the ground, while his two comrades slept on the other side of the fire.

A snort came from beside him, and Samwell turned his head to see Nymeria lying beside him. The skeleton of a deer lay in pieces beside her, the bones picked clean last night. The massive Direwolf looked like a mountain of lean muscle and fur as she slept. Even lying down, she was nearly as tall as Samwell, and her white and grey fur spoke to the snows of her original home.

Nymeria's eyes slowly opened, and she began to lick her nose with her tongue. The Direwolf looked over at Samwell, who smiled at her, then opened her fang-filled mouth wide as she yawned. Nymeria then licked his scarred face a little before laying her head in his lap.

Samwell gently petted her head as the horizon lit up in brilliant hues of orange and yellow.

Once Ser Loras and Ser Prester were both awake, the trio finished eating and mounted their horses. Samwell rode at the head of the group, with Nymeria following beside him. She still made the horses nervous, so he had to keep a tight hold on the reins.

They rode for quite a while, following the river they had seen King Drakon fall into during the Siege of Meereen. While his survival was questionable at best, almost impossible, in fact, that did not stop Samwell and his companions from searching for their fallen king. At the very least, they could provide Drakon's wife and children a proper burial. So, they rode on, miles and miles beyond Slaver's Bay and the city of Meereen, following the winding river northwards.

"Anything?" Samwell asked as they looked down at the river.

"Nothing, my lord," Ser Prester replied.

Ser Loras shook his head. "For all we know, this river flows for another hundred miles."

"Then we ride for another hundred miles," Samwell said, his voice hard as steel.

"What we should be doing is returning home. We all know that opportunists will try to take advantage of the king's death."

"Forgive me for saying, Ser, but did you not once throw your lot in with an opportunist?" He looked back at the Knight of the Flowers, who frowned at him. "Was Renly Baratheon not taking advantage of the Usurper's death?"

"Who are you to judge me?" Ser Loras asked. "You are the one who was disowned by your own family, living as nothing more than a wandering Sellsword until you had the good fortune to side with a man who slaughtered his way onto the Iron Throne."

Samwell stopped his horse and turned it around. "You know nothing about me! Your inclinations were tolerated by your family, but mine caused my father to banish me from my home!" Nymeria, sensing his anger, growled menacingly at Ser Loras, whose horse fidgeted with fear. "You have had everything handed to you on a platter, even when your emotions caused you to flit between masters on a whim. I have had to fight and kill to earn what I have, all the while denying who I really am. Before you say another word, remember that not all of us led perfect lives. Some of us earned them through struggle, and loyalty to the right person."

Ser Loras glanced at Nymeria, whose fangs were bared, and sighed.

Just then, a roar thundered from above. The trio looked up to see a Dragon soaring through the clouds. "Which is it?" Ser Loras asked. "One of the king's, or one of the Targaryen girl's?"

"It's not one of King Drakon's," Ser Prester said, pointing. "Green and bronze scales."

"It must be ranging for food," Samwell surmised. "I imagine he relishes his new freedom after being chained for over a year." The Dragon flew overhead, completely ignoring them. From his current vantage point, Samwell saw that it was the one that was missing some of its wing membrane from the fierce clash between Drakon and Daenerys' Dragons at Meereen. It let loose another roar, and was soon out of sight as it flew somewhere to the west.

The trio continued riding, following the river. Eventually, Samwell spotted something.

"There!" he said. They soon came to a bend in the river, where something was lodged in between a few rocks. Samwell gestured to it, and Nymeria clamped her jaws around it, prying it free with a few tugs. She brought it over to him, and he took it, petting her in gratitude.

"Is that…?" Ser Loras started to ask.

"King Drakon's Dragon Horn." It was just as he remembered it: long and heavy, with ornate Valyrian symbols etched across it surface. He had never held it before now, but in that moment he did not want to, for he understood the power of the object.

"Should we use it?" Ser Prester asked.

"I…do not think so," Samwell replied. "It might not even work for any of us. Besides, Rhaegon and Maelion might not be controllable without King Drakon." Samwell noticed something in the edge of his vision, and saw a number of horse hooves further ahead.

They ran towards the northeast.

* * *

Drakon managed to open his eyes, if somewhat labouriously. He was looking down at the dry, dusty ground, and it did not take him long to notice the horse's legs. One of the Dothraki he had spotted must have hoisted him onto the back of his mount.

"Why did he need all this metal skin?" someone asked in Dothraki. Drakon looked up and saw another rider. He his black plate armour was bundled and roped on the back of the other man's horse.

"He was heavy enough without it," the Dothrakan carrying Drakon replied.

"Maybe it's so heavy because he's a ghost, and he didn't want to float into the sky," the first one said.

"He's not a ghost!"

"He has white hair!"

"Because he's old. That doesn't make him a ghost."

"He looks stronger than any one of us, and he doesn't look that old."

"Ghost or not, he has some nice weapons." Drakon felt himself flush with anger, and craned his neck to see the Dothrakan handling Blackfyre. The savage leered at the weapon, kissing the Valyrian Steel blade. Drakon growled and struggled against his restraints, but found he could not break the ropes binding his wrists together.

The other Dothrakan said "He's awake!"

The rider bearing Drakon turned to look down at him. "Khal Moro will decide what to do with you. You're strong; maybe he'll find some use for you."

"I'm sure he'll find a use for the other white-hair we found."

Both Dothraki chuckled, and Drakon paused. 'Other white-hair'? There was only one other person in Essos with silver hair who mattered.

Daenerys Targaryen.

As he pondered the implications of his captors' words, he saw them ride over a ridge. Within a large valley was an endless ocean of tents and Dothraki with their horses and slaves. One of the countless Khalasars, a horde, was apparently ranging close enough to Meereen to capture both him and Daenerys, if their claim was to be believed.

They trotted through the massive encampment, drawing a small crowd along the way. People stopped and gawked at Drakon, marveling at his appearance. A Dothraki child ran up and tugged at his silver hair, but her mother hastily drew her back. They eventually came to a river that bisected the ocean of tents. Countless women lined its edge, washing clothes or children as the scorching sun shone down mercilessly.

Sitting alone by the edge was Daenerys Targaryen.

Her dress was dirty, and she appeared to be haggard from several days' hard travel. She scowled at her surroundings, but when her eyes fell on Drakon, they widened in shock.

The Dothrakan carrying him dismounted and pulled him off the horse. Drakon fell onto the ground with a grunt. "If you move, we will kill you." He and his companion then departed, leaving Drakon with Daenerys.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, grimacing from his not-quite healed arrow wound. "Daenerys," he greeted.

She frowned and looked away from him. "I thought you were dead."

"The world is too cruel to let me die." A long, uncomfortable silence fell over them like a death shroud, recent events still fresh in their memory. Drakon passed his gaze over the camp and said "Your people are certainly as…accommodating as I remember."

"These are not my people," she said, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. "They haven't been for a long time."

"Not since Khal Drogo."

She glared at him.

"I was sorry to hear that he died; I understood you loved him very much. The wedding gift I sent was probably lost back in the Red Waste."

"What wedding gift?"

He regarded her for a moment. "Songs and histories of the Seven Kingdoms."

Her frown returned. "Ser Jorah gave those to me."

"I was the one who gave them to him. He never mentioned? No, I suppose not. After all, I did ask him to keep my name a secret; I was still in hiding from the Usurper at the time."

Daenerys gave him a strange look. "There is one thing I do not understand about you: Ser Jorah, Olene, even you yourself claimed that you served me, that you were working to restore my family to the throne. Why did you betray me?"

Before Drakon had the chance to reply, a pair of Bloodriders approached. They took Drakon and Daenerys by the arms, yanking them to their feet. They were led to an open tent in the centre of the camp, where several more Bloodriders and a pair of women surrounded a man who must have been the Khal of this particular horde.

"For you, my Khal. The two white-hairs we found in the hills," the first Bloodrider said, shoving them both forward.

The Dothraki men leered at Daenerys, and Drakon sneered. No matter their differences, Daenerys was Rhaegar's last surviving kin, and was leagues better than these simple horse-folk. Despite their recent conflict, he bore her no ill-will, and the last thing he wanted for her would be as nothing more than a pleasure slave to this pathetic horse lord.

"Look at those lips, blood of my blood," a Bloodrider said.

"Blue-eyed women are witches," one of the Khal's wives said.

"It is known."

"Cut off her head, before she casts a spell on you."

Drakon could not help but snort in derision, and it earned him a punch to his injured shoulder.

The Khal slowly walked around Daenerys, looking down at her. "Even if I was blind, I'd hear my wives say 'Cut off her head' and I'd know this woman was beautiful. I'm glad I'm not blind. Seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time, what is better than that?"

"Killing another Khal?"

The Khal paused, clearly irritated. "Yes, killing another Khal."

"Conquering a city and taking her people as slaves, and taking her idols back to Vaes Dothrak?"

"Breaking a wild horse, forcing it to submit to your will?"

The Khal huffed. "Seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time is among the five best things in life."

When he grabbed her dress to tear it off, Daenerys said in Dothraki "Do not touch me!" The Bloodriders, wives, and the Khal were all shocked, giving each other looks as the Khal took a step back. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."

After a moment of silence, the Khal and the other Dothraki laughed at her words. The Khal grabbed her by the back of the head and leaned in close as he said "You are nobody, the millionth of your name, Queen of Nothing, slave of Khal Moro. Tonight I will lie with you, and if the Great Stallion is kind, you will give me a son. Do you understand?"

"You will do no such thing," Drakon said in Dothraki, mustering all the scorn he had in his muscular body.

The Khal glared at him for interrupting, and stepped over to face Drakon. The latter was not impressed, as he had to look down at the man to look him in the eyes.

"She is a queen," Drakon said, gesturing to Daenerys. "A conqueror. Her ancestors claimed the world as theirs from atop Dragons. Her family ruled over the lands beyond the Poison Sea for centuries, while you people ride along the grass and the dirt, claiming to be lords of the earth. What you really are is a pathetic rabble who will never know true greatness. It is known."

"I'm going to—" Khal Moro started to say.

Drakon interrupted him again, this time by head-butting the shorter man. He heard the satisfying crunch of the Khal's nose, but his own enjoyment was cut short as a whip wrapped around his neck and yanked him back. Drakon fell onto the dirt and was dragged along for a few feet. Another Bloodrider was suddenly on top of him, an Arakh at his throat.

"You broke my nose! You dare! When I am finished with you, I am going to produce a son from this white-haired bitch!"

"I will not lie with you," Daenerys calmly refuted. "And I will bear no children, for you, or anyone else. Not until the sun rises in the west, and sets in the east."

"I told you she was a witch," the Khal's first wife said. "Cut off her head."

"I like her. She has spirit." The Khal's words were somewhat garbled, given his broken and bloodied nose.

"I was wife of Khal Drogo, son of Khal Bharbo."

From where Drakon was lying, he could not see what the Khal did, but judging by his tone, he looked at Daenerys with more respect. "Khal Drogo is dead."

"I know. I burnt his body."

"Forgive me. I did not know. It is forbidden to lie with a Khal's widow. No one will touch you. You have my word."

Drakon heard a blade being drawn, then something being cut. Probably Daenerys' bonds.

"If you will escort me back to Meereen, I will see that your Khalasar is given a thousand horses, as a sign of my gratitude."

"When a Khal dies, there is only one place for his Khaleesi."

"Vaes Dothrak," the first wife said. "The Temple of the Dosh Khaleen."

"To live out her days with the widows of dead Khals. It is known."

Drakon then heard steps, and saw Khal Moro standing over him. "As for you…I'm going to make you suffer for breaking my nose. Get him up!" As Drakon was pulled to his feet, the Khal said "You will fight my Bloodriders and all those in my Khalasar who can fight until you cannot stand. And then, you will fight the next day, and the next, and the next, until you cannot stand any longer. Then, I will have you tied to four horses and ripped into pieces. I might even keep your silver hair as a reminder of how much pain you will suffer."

Khal Moro walked back into his tent, and the Bloodriders gathered in a circle around Drakon, tossing their weapons aside. The Blackfyre king, his hands still bound, spun on his heel, keeping an eye on each of them until one charged.

The Bloodrider aimed a kick at his chest, but Drakon caught his leg, forcing him to the ground. He then stomped on it, breaking the bone with a _crunch_.

Another Bloodrider managed to punch him in the face, and as Drakon felt a pulse of pain radiating from his mouth, he saw a figure flashing before his eyes, standing on a lonely hilltop. In that moment of distraction, he was too slow to keep that Bloodrider from head-butting him. With the pain returning him to the present, Drakon growled as he tackled the man onto the ground. He then smashed his bound fists into his opponent's face over and over and over, bloodying it with every blow.

An arm suddenly wrapped around Drakon's neck, and he was pulled up as the two other Bloodriders started punching him in the face, chest, and stomach. With every blow, Drakon saw the figure standing on the hilltop. Each time the image became clearer, until he finally recognized it as the voice he heard before waking by the river.

Rhaegar.

Drakon fought long and hard, but as the hours passed, he was finally too exhausted. His face and body covered in dark bruises and bloody cuts, his knuckles nothing more than bloody stumps, he collapsed and felt unconsciousness embracing him like and old lover.

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

Rona Grey looked up at the Iron Throne, her arms crossed. The throne room was empty, and yet the presence of the Targaryen Dragon skulls gave one the sense that they were always being watched.

Rona was used to being the one who spied on others. Feeling it herself was unpleasant.

She mused on the violence that had been escalating over the last few months in the capital. Everything was going so wrong, and every day felt like another failure. Things had been going so well, and now the gods saw fit to make a mockery of her efforts. Rona's life in service to Drakon Blackfyre and his family had seen her, and them, through countless tumults over the years such as personal tragedy and war.

And now, Drakon was dead.

Apart from Jocelyn, he had been her oldest, closest friend. They had known each other for the better part of twenty years, and she loved his children as if they were her own. She then thought of Visenya, and how that woman had wormed her way into Drakon's life. That silver-haired bitch was arrogant, and the Spymaster could only imagine how Jocelyn would think of how that woman had manipulated Drakon. Rona frowned, drawing her hood tighter around her head. It was her way of keeping the world at bay, leaving her mind as a quiet, untouchable haven for her to think freely. In her vocation, that was truly a rare thing.

"It's quite something, isn't it?"

Rona turned and saw Olenna Tyrell walking towards her. "Yes, it is."

The Tyrell matriarch looked up at the skulls and sneered. "I never enjoyed these wretched things. Too…macabre. I thought I was done with them twenty years ago, when Robert took power. Now they're back, looking ready to consume us at any second."

"It was important to King Drakon to have this room restored to its former glory."

Olenna stopped a few steps away from Rona. "Yes, I suppose it was. A child, fresh from his parents' murders, taken to a strange land where the king sat surrounded by the skulls of his family's greatest assets. Small wonder why they made an impression."

"The Targaryen history has always been important to him."

Olenna snorted. "Targaryen history. Aegon and his sisters slaughtering thousands to claim this country, the Dance of Dragons, Aegon IV legitimizing all his bastards and starting this whole bloody mess, and Aerys burning people alive with Wildfire. A grand tradition."

"Drakon was better than them," Rona said reflexively.

"Oh, yes. He only burned two people alive with Wildfire, and only a few hundred with his Dragons." Rona looked up at the Iron Throne, and the old woman said "We've met before, actually."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I was having lunch with my oaf of a husband, years ago. We were discussing a possible marriage between House Tarly and House Oakheart. There was a letter on the table from Lady Arwyn Oakheart, approving the match. I set the letter down after reading it, and in between bites, I swore it had moved. I thought nothing of it at the time, but there was this tiny wisp of a servant girl that walked out. When I sent a guard to retrieve her, the girl had vanished."

Rona turned to regard Olenna, her head cocked out of interest in the story.

"A few days later, I received word that Lord Goldberry had managed to secure a marriage between his daughter and Dickon Tarly. But the girl died of an infection a year later, and that was that. I've always wondered about that, even to this day, and it only occurred to me that you were the servant girl I saw."

Rona could not help but smirk.

"Many of us knew Lord Goldberry had acquired the services of a spy to do his dirty work for him, but no one ever figured that it would be such a scrawny little child."

"Lord Goldberry found it useful," Rona explained. "He paid me in food, but never too much. He didn't want to fatten me up. I was dirty and small, and thus invisible. I could escape notice of all you lords and ladies and squeeze through passages your guards could not."

Olenna gave a slight smile. "I understand that Lord Goldberry's successes came to an end about ten years after that marriage alliance fell through. What happened?"

"He had a bastard daughter. Jocelyn. I would see her whenever I was in Lord Goldberry's castle, and we became friends. It wasn't long before he cast her out, disowning her as his child. By then, I had made more than enough contacts, and I struck out on my own. I helped her get settled, start a life as a merchant. We remained close until she died."

"And now your master is dead," Olenna reminded her. "So, Rona Grey, to whom are you loyal now?"

"To Drakon's family. They are the home I never truly had, and I would do anything for them. Now that Drakon is…dead, I shall help his children with whatever they need."

Olenna nodded. For a long moment, there was only silence in the nearly empty throne room. The Dragon skulls loomed overhead, speaking to an ancient, powerful lineage that had ruled the world even after the obliteration of its original home. Eventually, Olenna said "Now that I think about it, I've forgotten what I was eating with my husband that day. Old age has a way of scraping memories away like barnacles from a gnarled ship."

"You were eating quail," Rona said, walking away. "With gravy."

She walked back to her room, always keeping a wary eye on her surroundings. In King's Landing, a single misstep could kill you, and she was glad that Jayne and the twins were no longer among the nest of silver-tongued vipers called a city.

Rona started to open her door when a boy in raggedy clothes, one of her birds, ran up to her. She crouched down and asked "What is it?" He whispered into her ear, and the information made her hackles rise. Rona reached into one of her pockets and gave the boy a fresh apple. He took it with a smile, biting into it as he ran away.

Rona stood, troubled by the recent turn of events. Realizing that she needed to take action, she opened her door and stepped inside, locking it before turning her back to it.

* * *

 _ **The Wall…**_

Rolfe growled like a savage Ice Bear as he gave a final, mighty thrust.

Gjalda, on her hands and knees, gasped as the two of them shared a moment of pure, raw pleasure. They then collapsed onto the furs of her tent, panting and drenched with sweat. "Well, fuck me!" Rolfe said, licking his lips.

"Aye, you do fuck pretty good for a Crow," Gjalda purred, rubbing her bare leg over his.

The veteran Ranger had completed his duties over an hour ago, and had decided to visit the Chieftess. He had sensed her willing desire to lay with him, and it had been decades since he had been with a woman. Devoting one's entire life to the Night's Watch and living a celibate lifestyle was slightly less torturous than being eaten alive by a Direwolf.

"It's been a long time since, well, y'know."

Gjalda smirked. "If it makes you feel any better, you weren't half bad. I've known Thenns with bigger cocks, but yours did the job just fine."

Rolfe growled. "I fucking hate Thenns."

"Doesn't everyone?"

The tent flap opened, and Gjalda's daughter entered. Rolfe instinctively covered himself, while the Chieftess made no move to do the same. "How was he, mother?" the girl asked, crouching by a bag and taking out some food.

"I'd say he was better than your father," Gjalda said, staring into Rolfe's eyes.

"Well, the last time I laid with a woman, we produced a bastard son and it got me sent up here. I can't imagine anything worse happening because of this time." As his partner chuckled, he began to dress himself in his uniform. He reached for his black furs, but when he wrapped his fingers around them, they suddenly started moving as they vibrated with a low growl. Rolfe jerked his hand back. "Seven fucking hells!"

"Hildi doesn't like to be woken from her sleep," Gjalda said, sitting up.

Rolfe grumbled and picked up his real black furs. Once everything was on and his axes were strapped to his waist, he stepped outside, into the finger-breaking cold of the North.

The Wildlings south of the Wall numbered 5,000. It was not so long ago that twenty times that number had been gathered, assaulting the Wall and the Night's Watch itself. Now, they were all that remained, a shadow of their former strength after the Massacre at Hardhome. Most of them were children and the elderly, hardly a great army.

Rolfe weaved between the rows of ramshackle tents, each one decorated with all manner of bones and tribal charms. After decades in the Night's Watch, he knew them all, having acquired a great familiarity with every tribe North of the Wall.

Very few people were up at this hour, as most had gone to bed. But when Rolfe passed under a massive arch made from Mammoth bones, he froze upon seeing a foot as big as a calf.

He looked up and saw Wun Wun, a Giant who had escaped Hardhome with the other survivors. The colossal creature looked down at Rolfe, who, despite his many years' experience, swallowed in fear. The ground thudded, and he saw another Giant, the only other one left alive, sitting on a boulder. This one's name was Gum Gum, or something similar. A massive tree trunk was beside the Giant as he carved arrows from it that were as large as a horse.

With a nervous smile, Rolfe slowly backed up until he was outside the Giants' part of camp. He eventually found his way back to his horse, and started riding for Castle Black.

The Wildlings were camped inside the Gift, the land given to the Night's Watch by an ancient Stark lord to supply the order of criminals and rapists and political outcasts. Jon Snow had kept his promise of providing the Wildlings with shelter and food, but Rolfe knew that most of the Northern lords would not be keen on having the North's ancient enemy inside their borders. Drakon Blackfyre's son ruled over the North now, and he was sure to intervene at any point.

Rolfe hoped that the boy did do something; it would give the Ranger an excuse to split his skull open.

He came to the front gate of Castle Black, but it did not open. Rolfe frowned, waving the lit torch in his hand. Were the sentries busy taking a shit? He huffed as he dismounted. "I'll find who was supposed to be on duty and break their thumbs." The gate was closed, but when he pushed on it, it ponderously opened. "What the fuck…?"

Rolfe entered the castle courtyard. It was still the middle of the night, and only a few sparse torches were lit. There was no one in sight, but that was not saying much, given the order's black clothing. After taking a few steps, Rolfe saw more torchlight to his left. A number of his brothers were gathered together by a corner. He also saw Jon Snow standing before them.

Before he could blink, he saw Olly, Jon's Steward, stab the bastard in the stomach, saying "For the watch."

"Hey!" Rolfe roared at the top of his lungs. The brothers all turned to face him, looking startled. The Ranger did not hesitate, drawing one of his axes and hurling it at Olly. It buried itself into his skull, spraying blood over several of the traitorous brothers. The boy's corpse collapsed onto the snow.

"Don't be stupid, Rolfe," Alliser Thorne said, sword in hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Rolfe demanded, drawing his other axe.

"This bastard betrayed us! He brought the Wildlings through the Wall, spat on every brother of the Night's Watch that's died killing those miserable goat fuckers. Don't stand in our way, or we'll kill you, too."

His mouth curled in a snarl, Rolfe said "I'm loyal to my commander, you cunts!" He then hurled his other axe. Thorne barely dodged it, saving his head from being split open like Olly's.

"Really? Forty fucking years, you never missed before, Rolfe. You're getting soft, old friend."

"I didn't miss."

Thorne furrowed his brow, but before he could say anything, a low growl came from nearby. Rolfe had the satisfaction of seeing the colour drain from the knight's face. Thorne turned around and saw that Rolfe's axe had struck the lock to one of the cells.

The door burst open to reveal Ghost, Jon Snow's Direwolf.

The massive beast barked as it leaped through the air, tackling Thorne to the ground. It wasted no time in sinking its long, sharp fangs into the man's face and throat. Ghost tore Thorne to pieces, and his agonized wails shattered the otherwise calm silence of the night. The rest of the traitorous brothers hastily backed away from their dying leader.

By then, the rest of the castle had awoken, and the rest of the watch surrounded the traitors. Rolfe charged through his former brothers, tackling one and head-butting another, until he reached Jon Snow. The bastard was on his knees in front of a sign that read 'TRAITOR', pressing his hands against the stab wound. Even in the dark of night, Rolfe saw the blood seeping between his fingers. Bringing one of Jon Snow's arms around his shoulders, the Ranger hoisted him up and began to carry him up the nearest set of stairs.

"Thank you, Rolfe," the bastard wheezed, his face already pale from blood loss.

"Don't feel like giving me a kiss just yet, lad." As they climbed the stairs, Rolfe saw Jon Snow's eyes close as his head lolled back. "Don't you fucking give up on me, Snow!"

* * *

 **And here is the second chapter of Season 6. I'm willing to bet many of you saw this coming, but I hope the big reveal was entertaining enough for y'all.**

 **I am understandably partial to Drakon, so I'm hesitant to have him truly killed off. However, when I saw the chance to have him be captured alongside Daenerys, I couldn't resist. He has rarely been in vulnerable positions like that, and it should prove to be very…cathartic for him. It was also a chance for him and Daenerys to actually have some serious screen-time together.**

 **I see Saernys and her brother as the healthier version of Cersei and Jaime. Two siblings, raised by a father who had great expectations for them, with a secret to keep from the world. They have had to rely on each other, and it's always nice to have a positive relationship between siblings.**

 **As much as I despised Littlefinger, the scenes I enjoyed of his the most were when he and Varys were alone in the throne room, chatting about their duplicitous ways with a polite, almost Bond-like, persona. Now that Littlefinger is, thankfully, gone, I thought it appropriate that Rona, Spymaster extraordinaire, have such a scene with Olenna Tyrell, who is always a delight.**

 **And I couldn't kill off Jon Snow. I just couldn't. Melisandre is dead in this story, and bringing her back now through some kind of miraculous resurrection so long after her death would feel cheap. So I aborted the assassination after the first stab, with Ghost coming to his friend's aid. It's always fun to see the Direwolves tearing peoples' throats out.**

 **MSala: As it turns out, no! I'm glad you enjoyed it.**

 **BigWilly526: A lot of Northerners would agree with you, and we'll see how that will play out. As for Rickon, I'm glad you enjoyed the twist. As for Drakon's reasoning, I'll get to that later.**

 **Coffee Targaryen: I'm glad you're still enjoying this story! I hope this chapter will equally satisfy you.**

 **Vyb: Well, here it is!**


	29. Kraken Rising

Important safety tip: use sunscreen on hot days! Don't be like me, and forget to apply sunscreen when you work outside for eight hours a day in a t shirt.

Also, to my fellow Canadians: Happy Canada Day! I am truly blessed to live in such a wonderful country.

* * *

 _ **The Iron Islands…**_

Rodrik Harlaw was dead.

No one knew exactly how he died. He was old, true, but by all appearances had been as healthy as any of the Ironborn. Even after being declared the new Lord of the Iron Islands by Drakon Blackfyre, he spent the majority of his time reading in his study. He had no particular interest in ruling, and the people of the Iron Islands returned to a life of drinking, brawling amongst themselves, and fishing. It was a fair arrangement.

Then, the head of House Harlaw started suffering headaches. As the days passed, they became worse and worse, to the point where no remedy could cure him. He started screaming about visions of ancient horrors drawn up from the depths of the sea, of a terror that was coming to swallow their souls.

The Ironborn scoffed at this. After all, they worshipped the Drowned God. Why should any of them fear what the sea contained?

One of the Drowned Men was called to investigate. He determined that Rodrik Harlaw had dishonoured the Drowned God by not keeping to the Old Ways. In a public ceremony, the Drowned Man pushed the old man's head into the water, so that he could be cleansed in the eyes of their deity.

It did not work.

Rodrik immediately thrashed in terror, throwing off the Drowned Man's grip as he fled from the water. He screamed about a black, many tentacled beast that was reaching out for him with the darkest intent. His already low standing with the Ironborn plummeted as everyone figured he had gone mad.

Weeks after the news of the death of King Drakon, Rodrik Harlaw had been found dead in his study, slumped over one of his many books.

His eyes were bleeding, and his tongue had blackened and swollen. The guards who found him described feeling a chill, unearthly air in the study, likening it to the cold depths of the sea.

As Rodrik Harlaw's body was committed to the water, the Ironborn stirred. The Blackfyre King who had burned Pyke with his Dragons and killed Balon and his brothers was now dead, along with the weak-willed puppet he had installed. Talk began to spread about renewing their raids on the mainland. A Kingsmoot was called, to decide the new ruler of the Iron Islands and the renewal of their destiny.

Lord Gylbert Farwynd declared his candidacy first. "I will lead us to a new, bountiful land across the Sunset Sea, just as Nymeria did with the 10,000 ships," he said. He gave gifts of whale bone, sealskins, and bronze.

Erik Ironmaker was next. His gifts were silver, bronze, and a few steel daggers and blades. Almost no one was swayed, as the Ironborn were tired of weak rulers, as Erik could not even stand on his own legs.

Lord Dunstan Drumm declared himself fit. His speech, good enough at the start, went on for far too long and bored everyone. His gifts of bronze were not enough to re-earn the lost favour.

With House Greyjoy nearly extinct, there was an opportunity for a new ruling House. Many lords and strong captains put their names forward, sharing gifts and threats in equal measure. Some objected, citing Balon Greyjoy's surviving children as possible heirs to the Salt Throne. Most, however, were far too taken with the possibility of themselves as rulers to remain loyal to the last Greyjoys. The Kingsmoot soon came to blows, and it appeared as if the next king would be the last one standing.

The din was shattered by the sound of a horn, one with an eerily familiar sound.

All those in attendance, both the claimants and their followers, turned to see the source of the sound. Standing on the path leading to the top of the hill where they all stood was a group of men. They were dressed vaguely as Ironborn, but there were significant differences. Most of them merely wore plain black clothes. One of these held a large horn in his hands, and it seemed to glow with archaic runes. Many recognized why it was so familiar.

It was nearly identical to Drakon Blackfyre's Dragon Horn.

The man at the head of the group was obviously the leader. His presence was commanding, yet there was an inherent sense of danger, as if one were distracted enough to crash their ship into hidden rocks. He wore a long black jacket, decorated with a kraken's tendrils. He was pale and handsome, with black hair and a dark beard. A black eyepatch covered his left eye, while his right was as blue as the sky. His lips were also blue, looking stained as opposed to dyed.

"Look at you lot," the man said, shaking his head. "Squabbling like children. There was a time when the mainlanders feared us, when even the mention of 'Ironborn' drove people from their homes and cities. Look at us now."

"And just who the fuck do you think you are?" one of the captains demanded.

Another one cuffed him on the head. "Don't be daft, you dumb shit! That's Euron Greyjoy, Balon's younger brother."

The crowd began to murmur at the mention of his name.

"Yes, that's my name," Euron said, pounding a fist on his chest. "I've been gone for a long time, but it's time I came back to ensure we take our rightful place in the pages of history. We are the Ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard. My brother would have been content with the cold and dismal North, my niece with even less…but I shall give you Lannisport. Highgarden. The Arbor. Oldtown. The Riverlands and the Reach, the Kingswood and the Rainwood, Dorne and the Marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth and the Stepstones. I say we take it all! I say, we take Westeros."

There was a general cheer from the crowd at such a glorious prospect, but Lord Gylbert asked "And just how will you accomplish this? Our fleet has been decimated. Pyke burned!"

"With this," Euron said, gesturing to the Dragon Horn one of his men held. "Drakon Blackfyre had the right idea, using Dragons to conquer Westeros. The dumb cunt got himself killed, so now it's our turn to use his tricks. His Dragons are still out there, and Daenerys Targaryen has three. Imagine what we could do with them at our command!" Many of the Ironborn murmured agreeably. "I have seen the future, my friends, and the future is ours! There is no power on this world that can stop us, no army. All the gods of creation wish us to succeed."

"There is only one god!" a Drowned Man declared, stepping forward. "The Drowned God conquers all, and if you worship any others, then you are a godless man."

Euron regarded the Drowned Man with his one eye. His silence was unnerving, as was that of his men, who never even whispered to each other. "Godless, am I? Why, I am the godliest man ever to raise sail! You serve one god, priest, but I have served ten thousand. From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray." He turned to face the rest of the crowd. "Across the sea, Daenerys Targaryen remains unmarried. I will court the Dragon Queen and marry her. Together we will conquer the world. I might even marry Visenya Blackfyre while I'm at it; I hear she's the most beautiful woman alive."

Sensing that the Ironborn were nearly swayed by his words, Euron decided to further sway them with gifts. He nodded to one of his men, who gestured to others who were nearby. They carried large wooden and metal chests to the crowd. They dumped them onto the grass, revealing the mounds of gold, jewels, and artifacts.

"These are but a few of the trinkets I've acquired," Euron said with a smirk. "Qarth, Volantis, Braavos…every city I visit gives me tribute, whether they want to or not. All this and so much more can be yours, my friends. Will you join me?"

Nearly all of them gave a cheer.

An hour later, Euron Greyjoy was made King of the Iron Islands. He faced the drowning with absolutely no fear. In fact, many thought he relished it. When he awoke afterwards, he was crowned king. Euron had Lord Baelor Blacktyde killed by ordering his men to tie stones to the man's legs and throwing him off a cliff. He also had the Drowned Man who spoke against him blinded as well as having his tongue removed before ordering the man taken to his ship, the Silence.

He declared that what remained of Pyke would become the capital of his kingdom. Many were confused, as the castle was nearly melted to nothing, like Harrenhal before it. Euron would brook no argument, and moved many of his personal belongings into the ruined castle. From atop the ashes and bones of his brothers, he would build an empire.

"That was quite a speech," someone said from nearby. Euron, sitting on the partially blackened Salt Throne, looked up to see an impossibly tall man enter the throne room, flanked by a group of guards wearing crimson Westerlands armour. "Very moving."

He was thin, but fit and impossibly tall, and garbed in blue armour with a black flame sigil on his breastplate. He wore no helmet, revealing his sharp, angular features, silver hair, and bright violet eyes.

"Now, there's a face you don't see too often."

The tall man smirked. "I came here to speak with Rodrik Harlaw, but it looks like that's no longer an option."

"I am King of the Iron Islands," Euron said. "You will speak with me."

"Of course. My name is Gaeryn Darklyte. My sister and I seek to conquer Westeros, and we were wondering if you and your men wanted to join us."

Euron leaned back on his throne, draping a leg over the armrest. "And why should I consider allying myself with a mainlander?"

Gaeryn Darklyte took a step forward, his violet eyes practically glowing. His lips were pursed, yet curled in a tight smile. "Because you need us."

Euron arched an eyebrow. "Do I?"

"You have a fleet, but let's be honest: that won't get you much. If you started this renewed Ironborn campaign a few years ago, you would have been one of a dozen vying for power. As it stands, most of the country is united under the Blackfyre banner, even if Drakon Blackfyre is dead. His children and his allies present a threat too great for you or us to take on individually. But if we combine our forces, we might have a chance against them."

"I serve the Drowned God, boy," Euron said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I follow the Old Way. The ways of gods and ancient men are my province. They will ensure my victory over simple folk."

Gaeryn's smile never faltered. "I've heard the rumours about you. I know you've raided from the Warlocks of Qarth, even ventured into Old Valyria and returned unscathed with a suit of Valyrian Steel armour. My family is blood of the Dragon, descended from Aegon the Conqueror. Valyrian blood is powerful, Greyjoy. It can unlock a great many things." He reached into a pouch at his belt, scooping something with his hand. He then threw it into one of the torches, and a bright flash of light burst into being, causing most in the room to shield their eyes as they recoiled.

Euron, however, did not even blink with his one eye as his blue lips curled in a wide, chilling smile.

Gaeryn looked back at him. "So, do we have an agreement?"

The new King of the Iron Islands mulled it over in his mind. "Bring us some wine," he told one of his mute crew. The scarred man came back a minute later with a jug, embellished with brilliant jewels taken from a Volantene merchant ship. He poured two cups, and Euron took them. He then scooped some of the ashes on the Salt Throne, his brother's ashes, and added them to both cups.

Gaeryn did not bother to hide his disgust as he was handed his cup. Euron smiled and drank his with a single gulp. As his new ally reluctantly did the same, he gave a hearty cackle that echoed through the burnt, blackened halls of Pike.

* * *

 _ **The Wall…**_

"We damn near lost you, boy," Rolfe said, clapping Jon Snow on the shoulder.

"It feels like you did," the bastard said. He was shirtless, sitting in a chair in his office as he clutched at the bandage around his midriff. "I don't want to think about what would have happened if even one more of them stabbed me."

"Well, don't think about leaving us now, Jon Snow," Tormund said, standing beside the Lord Commander. "You still have to keep to your promise, and soon enough we'll have to deal with the White Walkers."

Jon furrowed his brow, staring down at the floor.

"Well right now, those things can wait." The three of them looked over at Davos Seaworth. "You need to attend to the mutineers."

Jon's mood did not seem to improve. "My own brothers…" he said, his tone full of disbelief and sadness. "How could they do that? I've fought with them for years, lived with them for years. And they don't even hesitate before they try to murder me?"

"They were desperate," Davos said. "When men are desperate, you'll find they're capable of all manner of horrors."

Tormund grunted. "If my people did that to me, I'd slice them open and hang them by their balls over a fire."

Rolfe jerked back as Ghost's massive white body moved past him to join his master. The Direwolf sat beside Jon, licking his face. The veteran Ranger was continually amazed at just how intelligent the creatures were. Even after four decades in service to the Night's Watch, there were some things that he had not seen.

Jon stood, pushing on Ghost's back for support. Rolfe joined him, Tormund, and Davos outside in the courtyard, where all the brothers in Castle Black were gathered. Most of them were recently joined, having been sent as political enemies of Drakon Blackfyre, and thus had not served long enough to form any kind of resentment towards the Lord Commander the way the mutineers had.

Alliser Thorne, Othell Yarwyck, and three of their fellows had nooses tied around their necks. They stared daggers at the bastard, appearing unrepentant, even at the end.

Jon walked over to Alliser Thorne. "If you have any last words, now is the time."

"I had a choice, Lord Commander," the grizzled knight said. "Betray you, or betray the Night's Watch. You brought an army of Wildlings into our lands, an army of murderers and raiders. If I had to do it all over, knowing where I'd end up, I pray I'd make the right choice again."

"I'm sure you would, Ser Alliser," Jon replied.

"I fought, I lost. Now I rest."

For all the bitterness between them, Rolfe did not begrudge his old friend in this. The knight had the balls to own up to his death, and he faced it as a true brother of the Night's Watch should.

"But you, Lord Snow. You'll be fighting their battles forever."

The bastard walked over to the rope holding the platform on which the mutineers stood. He drew his sword, Longclaw, and hesitated. It was an easy thing, killing an enemy, but executing men you once called brothers was a terrible choice. Rolfe hated himself for killing Olly, and likely would for the rest of his life, but it was something that needed doing. His commander was now faced with a similar decision.

A moment later, Jon cut the rope.

The platform slipped from under the mutineers, and they began twitching like fish out of water as the nooses pulled on their necks. They wriggled and gurgled, and all the onlookers forced themselves to keep watching. Finally, the five men stopped moving, and became still as they hung there like dead drapes in a cursed castle.

"Cut them down and burn them," Jon said.

Later, once the castle returned to its normal state, Rolfe stood overlooking the courtyard as the brief, pale Northern sunlight shone down on the Night's Watch. His brothers had returned to their normal duties, and he saw Ser Davos and Shireen Baratheon on the walkways. Rolfe smiled a little at the sight; with nothing else in the world, those two still had each other.

It made him think of his son, Sebastion.

"Riders approaching!" a brother shouted as another blew on the horn. Castle Black erupted into activity as the garrison moved to respond, and Rolfe suddenly had a very bad feeling as he walked down into the courtyard.

Edric had never been happier in his life.

The most important moments in his life, the ones that would remain with him until his final breath, were few. The day his father presented him and his brother with their first swords, the same day he had told them about his true ancestry, and when his father had become King of Westeros and named him as Lord of Winterfell. Of all those, the day he had received Wolf's Howl along with the hand of Sansa was truly special.

None of them compared to how he felt, waking up beside his wife. Gone were the days of sleeping clothed beside her, desperately praying and hoping that Sansa would love him the way he loved her.

As the sun rose over the North, Edric stayed under the furs, staring at Sansa as she slept. She looked so peaceful, so content, that it made his heart ache. Her eyes fluttered in the cutest manner, and he suspected she was lost in a dream. Judging by the faint smile on her face, it was a good dream.

Her blue eyes opened a few minutes later, and he smiled as he stared into them.

"Morning," he said, giving her a kiss. He was hesitant, fearing that last night had been a dream or a nasty prank, but she seemed receptive. "How did you sleep?"

"It was one of the first times I can remember sleeping without any nightmares."

Inwardly, he shouted in triumph. "I'm glad. Last night, it was…" He failed to find the proper words, thinking that such an event could not possibly be described by something as mundane as words.

"It was special for me, too," Sansa said.

They stayed there for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the warmth and each other's company. Eventually, Edric asked his wife "Are you ready?"

She nodded, giving him a kiss on the lips.

They then got out of bed and dressed. When Edric started to wrap the black bandage over his left eye, he paused. For so long now, he had let the injury define him; it had affected every aspect of his life, from swordfighting to normal conversation. Last night, Sansa had shown him that the injury was just that, and he had the power to overcome it. After all, he was still Edric Blackfyre, son of Drakon, Lord of Winterfell and descendent of Aegon the Conqueror. One lost eye was not going to ruin his life.

He set the bandage down and walked away.

Together, their arms linked, he and Sansa made their preparations to leave. They would depart Winterfell with a small retinue, so as to travel quickly. Brienne would accompany them, of course, along with her faithful squire, Podrick. Along with them would be Masyn Tanner, a dozen guardsmen, and Katryna, a gifted huntress and tracker who had served Edric's father for many years. His father had gifted her to him, saying at the time that 'you will be facing more of the wilderness than me or your brother'. The redheaded woman had a pet falcon, as well, though Edric couldn't remember its name.

After helping Sansa mount her horse, Edric mounted his. "Are you ready?"

She nodded. "Yes."

They trotted out the main gate, followed by their escort. Edric and Sansa stopped their horses once they were outside Winterfell and turned to see the two skeletons hanging from the battlements atop the gate. They were the remains of Ramsay Snow and his father, Roose Bolton. Edric had had them suspended like that to remind the people of the North of how his family had rid them of the treacherous, flaying psychopaths. The amount of satisfaction he had at the gesture was no small part of it.

Sansa's lips were pursed as she looked up at them. "After what those monsters did to my family, what Ramsay did to you…I never want them taken down. Let their bones rot for 100 years."

Edric nodded, having the same desire himself. It was not enough to destroy the Boltons, but to remind everyone of who and what they were. Like the Reins of Castamere, the Boltons of the Dreadfort would serve as a warning to those who sought to threaten Edric and the people he loved. They turned their horses around and resumed their course north, towards the Wall.

The journey took three days. Even while following the Kingsroad, they had to be wary of roaming marauders or wild animals along the way. Edric was convinced that the only reason they were not mauled and left for dead was due to Katryna and her falcon.

Finally, they reached their destination: Castle Black.

The last time he had been here was during the closing days of the Second War of Conquest. He, Edwyn, and their father had led their army to this place in order to defeat the forces of Stannis Baratheon. Edric and his twin had faced Stannis himself in personal combat, and Edric had been the one to kill the last Baratheon.

Now, he came here with no army, merely a small escort and the woman he loved more than anything. Edric was walking into a haven of former political enemies of his father, rapists and thieves and murderers, and Jon Snow.

The party rode over a hill, and Edric glanced at Sansa. Jon, while a bastard, was still her brother through their father. He knew that she did not want Jon killed, but if the matter of the Wildlings was not resolved, then Edric would be forced to take some…uncomfortable actions. It was also highly likely that Jon held some resentment for him due to his family's assault on Castle Black and his position as Warden of the North.

They crested the hill, and what Edric saw made his mouth fall open.

Wildlings. Thousands of them. Beneath the shadow of the Wall, a massive camp stretched for many miles. Tents and all manner of structures made from what looked like bones and animal hides filled the land east of Castle Black.

"Gods," Sansa muttered.

Edric could only nod, and Katryna's falcon gave a sharp cry, just as off-put as the rest of them were. Gulping, he put as much strength into his voice as he could and said "Come on. It's time to speak with the Lord Commander."

They rode towards the castle. A horn blew from inside, and Edric could only imagine the number of black-cloaked killers waiting to slice them open.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Edric gripped the handle of Wolf's Howl, and he could see Katryna's falcon jump onto her shoulder as she took out her crossbow. The silence was overbearing, and if the Night's Watch were planning an ambush, the young Blackfyre wanted them to get it over with. At least then, the anticipation would not be eating him alive.

The tense wait was thankfully broken when the gate was opened. The party urged their horses forward, with Edric and Brienne staying close to Sansa.

A number of the Night's Watch were gathered along the walkways and the edge of the snow-covered courtyard. None of them said a word, merely staring at them. Edric found it uncomfortable. Looking to his right, he saw a tall, well-muscled, thick-haired Wildling Ginger staring, open-mouthed, at Brienne.

"You!" someone shouted from nearby, causing him to flinch. He saw one of the Night's Watch, an older, grizzled-looking man with a face full of scars and a rough, patchy beard walking towards them. "You're Edric Blackfyre?"

"I am," Edric replied, still gripping his sword handle. "What does that matter to you?"

"Your father murdered my son, you little shit!"

A chill crawled up Edric's spine. He recalled a story that his father had told him and Edwyn in confidence, of how he had befriended a noble bastard named Sebastion Storm before killing the man to assume his identity. He also remembered his father saying that Sebastion's father served in the Night's Watch.

The older man started walking, but Katryna aimed her crossbow at him. "Take one more step, and you'll get a bolt through your eye!"

He halted, but his hands hovered over a pair of axes at his belt.

"That's enough, Rolfe!" Edric, Sansa, and the others turned to see someone standing at the top of some stairs. He carried himself like a seasoned warrior and a man who bore the responsibility only a commander could.

Jon Snow.

He was shorter than Edric had been expecting, but that no less detracted from his aura of calm focus and utter seriousness. Jon Snow, garbed in a thick black cloak, descended the stairs, accompanied by a man with shoulder-length brown hair and a thin beard as well as an enormous, deathly white Direwolf with red eyes. When he stepped on the ground, he told the older man "I said that's enough, Rolfe. Walk away."

'Rolfe' appeared conflicted, to say the least. The look on his face was enough to kill a man, and Edric, even with his months of sword training from Masyn, feared the outcome of a fight between them.

Eventually, the older man's loyalty won out, and he growled as he turned and walked out of the courtyard.

Edric dismounted, as did the others. Jon Snow turned to face them, and when his gaze fell on Sansa, he flinched, as if an arrow had struck his heart. Sansa had the same reaction, and the two of them were frozen in shock. This was the first time they were seeing each other since they had first left Winterfell all those years ago. Edric chose to remain silent, knowing this was an important moment for his wife.

She and Jon rushed into each other's arms, embracing in a tight, loving hug that carried with it five years of pain and suffering their family had gone through.

* * *

 _ **Old Oak…**_

Saernys Darklyte, bringing her horse to a stop, held up a fist. The cavalry force stopped. There were only a hundred of them with her, as the rest of her army was hidden in the surrounding countryside.

They had just finished raiding a pair of villages to the west, taking all their food and supplies and press-ganging many of their young men into joining the army under threat of death. Sae knew perfectly well that scared, kidnapped farmers and their sons would never be the equal of trained soldiers, but the important thing was to increase the size of the army. Even inexperienced fodder could be used effectively.

Her father often said ' _Everything can be turned into a resource if you are wise enough to recognize its value, no matter how small._ '

Now, though, Sae and her small unit of horsemen were arrayed on an open field. Before them was Old Oak, the seat of House Oakheart and the first real stronghold they had to face in the Reach. Word had no doubt reached the keep of the 'bandit raids', and Sae was counting on a response.

She did not have to wait long before the front gates opened.

A group of knights and soldiers rode out. Sae figured they numbered a little over 300. They probably thought that they could overwhelm the simple group of bandits, but the eldest Darklyte child had something special in mind for them. Turning her horse, she said "Back! Back!"

They urged their horses into action, riding back the way they had come. The garrison from Old Oak kept following them, just as Sae intended. She and her horsemen rode up to a low creek, then stopped.

"Now!" Sae cried.

With the signal given, the pre-placed archers stood from cover inside the creek. They knocked their arrows, lit them, then loosed a volley.

Sae watched the arrows fly high, then fall back down to the ground just behind the castle garrison. When the flaming arrows made contact with the Blast Powder, it burst into a fiery explosion. Great plumes of smokeless fire rose in a line, throwing several of the castle guard from their horses. Several more were thrown off when their horses panicked, and a select few were unlucky enough to catch fire and burned to death as their armour fused to their bodies.

Sae took a horn from her belt and gave a single bellow. A thousand soldiers, thus far concealed by laying down underneath cloaks with grass and leaves sewn in, rose and revealed themselves. Drawing their weapons, they charged.

Not wanting to be left out of the fun, Sae drew Dark Drinker and a second sword. With a kick, she urged her horse forward. The enemy soldiers were still disorganized from the explosion, and they had no chance as they were surrounded. Sae beheaded one man with her new Valyrian Steel weapon, then cut down another with her other sword. She weaved her way through the chaos with the grace of a master dancer, never receiving a single hit as she killed countless enemy soldiers.

Within minutes, it was over. The entire garrison force from Old Oak was wiped out. The castle was now defenseless.

When Sae and her troops converged on Old Oak, they were met only by a dozen or so archers. "Should we begin scaling the walls?" a knight asked her.

"No," she replied. "I have something different in mind."

A few minutes later, her soldiers moved a catapult into position. It was loaded with not a large rock, but a large cask. Instead of oil, it contained something much more interesting. Sae gave the signal, and the catapult fired. The cask soared through the air before slamming into the front gate, shattering into a hundred pieces. The yellow substance it contained, which the Darklytes had come to call Harpy's Bile, covered much of the gate, and it began to smoke as it ate through the wood.

Sae saw light coming through a fist-sized hole. It was joined by another, and another, until the substance had melted a massive gap into the gate. Only the edge of the wood was left, hanging by its hinges, while the way was clear into the castle.

Old Oak was theirs in less than an hour.

Entering the lord's private chamber, Sae removed her helmet and set it down on the table. She then poured herself a cup of wine and draped herself across the finely carved, high-backed chair depicting the sigil of House Oakheart.

Gae entered a few minutes later.

"Drink?" she asked him.

"I won't say no to such a fine vintage," her brother replied after sniffing the bottle. As he poured himself a cup, he said "I was hoping to join you in taking the castle, but as always, dear sister, I was unequal to your…enthusiasm."

Sae smirked. "I got tired of waiting. Besides, the Blast Powder and Harpy's Bile worked perfectly."

"I'll be sure to send your compliments to Kae."

"No doubt she's already hard at work on half a dozen formulas. Now, what about our new ally? Has he made any progress?"

Gae leaned against a wall, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "Greyjoy attacked the House Mallister ships blockading the Rock and raided Seagard. He's re-taken most of the ships they took from Victarion Greyjoy last year. Last I heard, the 'Iron Fleet' was sailing towards the Shield Islands."

"That's something," Sae said, taking another sip. "It would seem that Euron Greyjoy is proving to be a valuable asset to our family's cause."

Gae was silent as he stared at thin air. "Maybe. If you'd met the man in person, you might have second thoughts. All the stories, they don't nearly do him justice. He looks like a man, but he has the black heart of a monster. He's the worst thing that Drowned God of theirs spat out of the sea."

Sae watched her brother closely. "Well for now, we'll let him aid our cause. Once our father sits on the Iron Throne, we'll kill him and put an end to the Greyjoys once and for all."

"I only hope we can."

* * *

 _ **The Dothraki Sea…**_

Drakon's vision flared as a Dothrakan punched him in the face.

He grunted, but he endured the pain as he had done his entire life. Gritting his teeth, Drakon dodged the next punch and drove his thumbs into the other man's eyes, eliciting a wail of agony. An arm wrapped around his throat, pulling him back, but the Blackfyre king jerked his head back and heard a satisfying _crunch_.

For weeks now, Drakon had become a plaything of the Khalasar. Every Bloodrider and man who could fight stepped up to face him day after day, week after week. His body was covered in splotches of dark bruises, it hurt to breathe from what was likely a broken rib, his right eye was so swollen he could no longer see out of it, he was missing several teeth, and his leg was healing from a break.

Still, he endured.

The blows were painful, but their effects were shallow compared to losing his mother, or Rhaegar and his family, or Jocelyn and his unborn twins, or nearly losing Edric and Edwyn to Ramsay Snow or Daenerys.

Eventually, like all the other days, one of the Dothraki knocked him to the ground, and he no longer had the energy to stand. As the horse-lords congratulated themselves, those that were without serious injury at any rate, Drakon was dragged by his arms over to Daenerys' side. She was no longer bound, but there was still a constant guard around her.

As the sun began to set, she said "Most men would have died by now."

"I am not most men," Drakon managed to say through a broken jaw and a split lip.

He could almost picture her disapproving frown. "You're certainly as arrogant as most men I've encountered. Perhaps my advisors were right about you, after all."

Every breath stabbing him in the chest, Drakon explained "What I mean is that life is too cruel to let me die so easily. It wants me to suffer."

There was a pause. "You said that before. What do you mean?"

With his one good eye, Drakon stared up at the sky as the stars began winking into view in the dark shroud of the night. "From my birth, I have known nothing but death and misery. People wanted my death simply because of who my father was; they wanted to kill me, a child, because they feared what I might become. But your father showed mercy on me, that day. He gave me a home, let me read and train with Ser Barristan. I had the chance to grow up with Rhaegar, enough to call him my own brother."

The memories flashed in his mind's eye, bringing back old traumas.

"But that happiness was taken from me. Rhaegar and his family were butchered by monsters seeking their own favour, and I was driven out, forced to hide myself for fear of discovery. I fell in love, started a family. For a time, I was happy again. But then my wife and our unborn twins died, and suddenly I was back in the Red Keep, losing everything. The day she died was the same day I gave birth to my Dragons."

"I…had no idea," Daenerys said, her voice soft.

"So you see, Daenerys Stormborn, I had to act when you imprisoned my son. I cannot lose one more person I love. I cannot!"

"Your son was suspected of burning my fleet."

"He was innocent!"

"And a trial would have revealed his innocence. You could have both been on your way, but instead, you laid siege to my city, slaughtered hundreds of my people, injured my children, and you murdered Ser Barristan." The fire had returned to her voice, and despite the situation, Drakon expected nothing less from Rhaegar's surviving blood kin.

"Yes, I did those things," he admitted. "I acted rashly. I was willing to burn down the whole of Meereen to rescue my son. My rashness drove me to kill the man who raised me. I would have given anything to see Ser Barristan live, to have him serve as a knight to a worthy ruler."

"And yet you chose to drive your sword through his heart."

The words cut deep, down to the bone, and Drakon felt tears welling up in his uninjured eye. Doing his best to ignore the pain from a hundred different blows, he sat up and looked at Daenerys. "You knew Ser Barristan for years. How would you have measured the man?"

She thought it over, then replied "He was a good man, a wise man, willing to fight for what he believed in."

"He was an honourable knight," Drakon said, nodding. "I knew him all my life, from the time I could walk to the time I was well into manhood. Do you know what his greatest fear was? He feared dying of old age. He was terrified of becoming a sad, withered creature left to rot in some keep by the sea, tended by servants waiting to bury him. He was a knight, the truest knight that ever lived; he wished to die fighting, as a knight should, fighting for a cause he believed in. I gave him that opportunity. As I held him in my arms, he smiled, for he died as he lived."

Daenerys sat back and stared at the ground. Drakon supposed she was comparing him to the stories she had been told, seeing if he matched her preconceptions. Eventually, she asked "Why did you try to protect me from Khal Moro?"

"I never wanted you dead, Daenerys," he replied. "I only wanted my son back. You are the last surviving kin of Rhaegar, and Blood of Old Valyria. You are the last Targaryen, and I could never bring myself to end that line."

She stared at him with eyes that could have melted Valyrian Steel. "Then why did you try to destroy my city? Why would you betray Rhaegar's memory?"

"Don't you dare," he warned. "Don't you dare try to use him against me. You were only born after he died. I grew up with him! I played with him, I trained with him, I…I loved him, more than any man I have ever known."

"And what would my brother think of you now?"

This time, it was Drakon who averted his gaze. "He would be ashamed of me. I have betrayed everything he ever stood for. I have lied, cheated, and murdered innocents and guilty alike. I became just like the monsters that slaughtered our families. He would be disgusted at what I have become."

They were both exhausted, and while Daenerys slept on a fur carpet provided by the Khal, Drakon laid back down on the dry, hard ground. He did not fall asleep so much as fall unconscious from his many injuries, and he welcomed the blackness.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

The Tourney was in full swing.

Lords and knights and their families all flocked to the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon at the base of the mountain. Jousting, melee, and archery contests aplenty occupied the nobility of the Vale. Jayne had never appreciated tourneys as much as her brothers, having no interest in martial affairs. She did, however, have a certain eye for the display of raw male strength and prowess.

Her main interest in tourneys, however, was the political angle. Thus far, Jayne had been forced to invite lords and ladies and their relatives to the Eyrie piecemeal to confirm or claim their loyalty. Now, they were all at her doorstep, which made the task considerably easier.

While Jayne spent some time charming and conversing the nobles of her new home, most of her days were spent by her son's side.

His health was very poor, due to being born too early. Maester Colemon attended to him constantly, and per her command, he had sent for healers and Maesters from across the Seven Kingdoms and Essos. Jayne had Carellen Stokeworth and a group of handpicked guards watch over her son at all hours, and they stood close by each of the visiting healers. Any wrong move, and they would be dead in moments. Thankfully, none had made a move against the babe, and their collective efforts, if not completely healing her son, made sure his condition stabilized enough for him to live another day.

After much discussion, Jayne and Andar had announced to the nobles and people of the Vale the name of their son: Aegor Royce, named after Aegor Rivers, chief supporter and half-brother of Jayne's ancestor, the founder of her father's House.

With nearly all the lords of the Vale gathered in the same place, Jayne had an opportunity to keep a close eye on Oswell Kettleblack and his three sons, all of whom were competing. Malcom told her that he saw an older man speaking with a younger man, which meant Oswell had been speaking with one of his sons. Her main priority now was to find out which son it was, and why they plotted against her new family.

Jayne had Malcom quietly observe them over the course of the Tourney. Unfortunately, they mostly kept to themselves, and they were only discussing the joust or the melee.

One week after the commencement of the Tourney, Jayne sat down with Andar and his father to dine in the Eyrie. The sun had fallen some time ago, and torchlight provided the only illumination in the cold stone chamber. A pair of guards flanked both doors, and servants filled their cups with wine, or in Jayne's case, water.

"That was a crushing victory over Harrold Hardyng," Lord Royce told his son between bites of mutton. "Knocked him off his horse on the first tilt as if he were a sack of potatoes!"

Andar chuckled as he ate his food. "It was all about technique, really. He was shorter, so all I had to do was lower my—"

Jayne became lost in her thoughts, picking away at her food. As her husband droned on about jousting, she thought of ways to force the issue of House Kettleblack's guilt. Any unsubstantiated accusations would not only fall on deaf ears, but they would also damage her prestige and standing in the Vale that she had worked so hard to build. She had to find a way to root them out; perhaps she could force the issue by forging some evidence…

Adrya appeared by her side, her eyes full of concern. "You've hardly eaten, m'lady. Should I bring you something else? Boiled vegetables, perhaps?"

Jayne smiled. "Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."

Her handmaiden's smile contained a wealth of meaning, one that only she would recognize from their intimate encounters. As Adrya took the plate away, she was not focused enough on her surroundings, and accidentally knocked over Andar's cup, spilling the wine across his plate and the tablecloth.

As Andar backed away from the spill, Adrya blanched. "I-I'm terribly sorry, m'lord!"

"Watch where you're going!" he barked, his brow furrowed in frustration. "That was a fine vintage, and I had yet to take a sip."

"It was an accident, husband," Jayne soothed. "She meant nothing by it."

He looked at her for a moment, then seemed to calm down. To Adrya, he said "Make sure that doesn't happen again."

"Of course, m'lord."

"You there, boy! More wine."

The servant holding the pitcher scurried over to the table, pointedly looking away from Andar. He poured wine into Andar's cup, but as he did so, Lord Royce began to cough. Jayne started to bring her own cup to her lips, but paused as her father-in-law's cough did not abate. In fact, it only seemed to worsen, and it sounded harsher and harsher. Jayne and Andar looked over at him, and the older man seemed to be hacking, his hand covering his mouth.

When he revealed his palm to be covered in blood, Jayne felt a sense of dread.

"Father?" Andar asked, clueing into the seriousness of the situation.

Lord Royce kept hacking and hacking, and Jayne saw, much to her horror, that his eyes were bleeding. "He needs help!"

"Father!" Andar cried, rushing over to the older man's side.

Lord Royce openly began coughing up blood, and it seemed to pour from his throat, staining his armour and surcoat scarlet. The guards rushed over to him, shoving the servants aside as they desperately, and fruitlessly, tried to help their lord.

Within moments, Lord Royce became pale as a sheet as his body stilled, blood running from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.

Jayne gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, when she noticed movement from the corner of her eye. She turned to see the servant boy with the wine pitcher shuffling towards one of the now-unoccupied doors. "Him! He poured the wine!"

Andar, tears running down his cheeks, snarled and pointed at the boy. "Seize him!"

The guards stood and rushed towards the door, but just as the boy opened it, he was punched in the face by Carellen Stokeworth, knocking him to the floor. The guards then grasped him by the arms and legs, hoisting him to his feet.

Jayne looked back at Lord Royce, her fears for her new family feeling all-too real.

* * *

 _ **The Wall…**_

Edric and Sansa joined Jon Snow in the Lord Commander's office. Everyone else remained outside, which thankfully included the albino Direwolf. Edric stood off to the side, leaning against a wall, while Jon and Sansa sat in front of the fire. The former was staring at the young Blackfyre, who returned it with a stare of his own. They were waiting to see which one would break first; in the North, strength was often the sole determination for rule.

Sansa took a sip of the bowl her half-brother gave her. "This is good soup. Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?"

"With the peas and onions?" Jon asked.

She hummed in acknowledgement.

"We never should have left Winterfell."

Edric looked over at Sansa, who stared into the fire. If she and her family had never left Winterfell, then she never would have been in a position to marry Edric, and Edric would never have become Warden of the North. At least not in the way it did happen. Events played out the way they did so he and Sansa could meet, and he did not want to imagine a world where they were not together.

Edric knew that was selfish. He did not care.

"For the longest time, I wished I could go back to the day we left," she said. "I wanted to scream at myself, 'Don't go, you idiot'."

"How could we know?" Jon asked.

"I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything."

"We were children," Jon said, an understanding smile on his face.

"I was awful, just admit it."

He chuckled. "You were occasionally awful. I'm sure I can't have been great fun; always sulking off in the corner while the rest of you played."

"Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Forgive me."

"Alright," Jon said in surrender. "Alright, I forgive you."

Edric sat down beside his wife, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "While I am always in favour of Sansa visiting her family, I'm certain you've guessed why we've come."

Jon's expression darkened. "Aye, I have."

Edric sighed. "The Wildlings cannot stay south of the Wall. They have to go back."

"They'll die if I send them back, and that's even if they'd agree to go along with it."

"They've been living North of the Wall for thousands of years! They know the land, so why can't they keep living there? Because if they stay, then that will create more problems, not less."

Jon looked him in the eyes and replied "Because there's something out there, far worse than any army ever known: an Army of the Dead that keeps growing with every battle, an army led by immortal creatures that can't be stopped with steel or arrows."

Edric rolled his eye. "You're expecting me to believe in fairy tales?"

Jon stood, his mouth curled in a frown. "Your father gave birth to Dragons, and you draw the line at fairy tales?"

Edric stood, as well. "I've seen Dragons. I've never seen White Walkers or giant spiders. Those are just stories, meant to scare children into behaving themselves."

"It doesn't matter what you believe. The dead are coming, and they're coming for all of us, not just one Lord or one House. Every living thing is at risk, and we have to keep enough people from becoming soldiers for the Army of the Dead."

Breathing a heavy sigh, Edric stepped over to one of the office's windows, which was just a hole in the wall. "Most of Westeros believes Northerners to be a pessimistic, superstitious lot who practice backward beliefs. My father always told me that you were a strong people, with a proud history. I didn't want to believe that you were as misguided as the stories say you are."

"It is a little hard to believe, Jon," Sansa said, her voice full of apprehension. "Old Nan used to tell those stories to Bran all the time. Father believed, but he always said the White Walkers were extinct."

"Not extinct," Jon said. "They were sleeping. And they've woken up."

Edric crossed his arms. "Bedtime stories of mythical monsters won't have any bearing on this situation, Lord Commander. If the Wildlings won't go back to their side of the Wall, then they'll be thrown out by an army of Northerners."

Jon glared at him, his hands clenched into fists.

"It won't come to that," Sansa said, her tone as hard as steel.

"I don't want it to," Edric said. "Lord Commander, I know you were never expected to rule, and you never had any interest in politics, so let me explain it to you: I may be Warden of the North, but I am beholden to the people of the North. Those people are afraid of having a horde of murderous savages so close to their homes. Smalljon Umber has demanded that I take action; the only reason he hasn't done anything himself is because he doesn't have the men. And now, there is this." Edric took out a piece of parchment and handed it to Jon. "I sent ravens to all the Northern Lords, wanting to assure them that, despite my father's death, the North will keep knowing peace under my rule. That response came from Lyanna Mormont on Bear Island."

Jon took the parchment and read it over. "'House Mormont recognizes no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark'."

"Short and to the point. My father also told us that the Northerners were a stubborn lot, and that matches with the stories."

"You think I want to rule the North?" Jon asked incredulously.

"You're the only surviving male child of Eddard Stark," Edric said, glancing at Sansa as he said the words. "The Starks ruled the North for thousands of years, and the kind of loyalty that inspired doesn't go away easily. Not every Northern Lord wants me as their liege lord, and it seems to me that they would want a man of Stark blood to take my place."

"Jon would never do that," Sansa said, standing.

"I don't want to be a fucking lord," Jon said, tossing the parchment onto his desk. "So what is it that you want from me?"

"I want your assurances that you won't use your Stark blood to rebel against my rule. I also want you to send the Wildlings back across the Wall, before this leads to bloodshed."

Jon was silent for a moment, obviously weighing his options. He looked like a man who had had to make many serious choices, and bore the weight of the consequences every day. Eventually, he said "If I send them back, I will be condemning thousands of innocent men, women, and children to their deaths. I cannot do that. I've seen what the Army of the Dead can do, and it is unlike anything you or anyone in the Seven Kingdoms has ever known."

Edric sighed. A part of him suspected this would happen, but for Sansa's sake, he did not want it to come to this. His father had warned him and his siblings in the past that ruling often meant making difficult choices, and that a great ruler often sacrificed for the good of their subjects.

A sacrifice in this case might earn him the hatred of his wife.

"There has to be some way to resolve this," Sansa said.

Edric looked Jon in the eyes and replied "I'm sorry, Sansa, but I don't think there is. If Jon insists on putting the North in danger, then I have no choice but to return with an army."

He turned around and opened the door, only to find Jon's Direwolf lying on the floor. It stood and growled at him, baring its impressive fangs as its red eyes bored into him. Edric gripped his sword handle, but that only made the animal bark at him. "Jon," Sansa said, and despite the situation, Edric was delighted to hear the concern in her voice.

"Ghost," Jon said, his tone neutral. The Direwolf instantly calmed, walking over to its master's side.

Edric looked back at his wife and said "Sansa, let's go." She stood still, her gaze passing between them. "Sansa." Since he was going to return to Castle Black in force, he desperately wished that she would not stay with her half-brother.

She finally followed him, and he released the breath he had been holding as they and Jon made their way out to the courtyard. Their escort was still gathered by the horses, nervously watching the large number of black brothers surrounding them. Edric led Sansa to her horse, and Brienne asked "Were you able to reach an agreement, my lord?"

"No," he replied, looking back at Jon, who stood on one of the upper walkways. "It looks like—"

A door burst open, and a little girl came running out of it, giggling. "You're never going to catch me!" she called as an older man with a beard ran after her. They both stopped upon seeing Edric and his guards, and Edric got a good look at the little girl. She had long, brown hair, and half of her face was covered in Greyscale.

"Shireen Baratheon," Edric said, his mouth open in shock. He looked up at the older man, who could only have been Ser Davos Seaworth, former advisor to Stannis Baratheon.

"They're supposed to be dead," Brienne said. Edric knew that she had sworn an oath to avenge the death of Stannis' brother, Renly, by killing Stannis. She would know better than anyone what the man's former advisor and daughter looked like.

Edric looked back at Jon and asked "So it's not just Wildlings you're protecting, but traitors to the crown?"

Ser Davos stepped in front of the girl and drew a sword. "You won't have her! You won't!"

Edric drew his own sword in response, and Brienne and his guards did the same. The brothers of the Night's Watch did so, as well, and the Direwolf growled as it prepared to attack. Edric knew they were outnumbered, and his most important priority was protecting his wife and getting out alive.

"Brienne, get Sansa on her horse. Now."

The large woman did as commanded, hoisting his wife up onto her mount. Edric managed to mount his horse without making a fool of himself, which meant that he was getting used to his limited eyesight. "You've made a mistake, Lord Commander. I promise you that."

"You're the one who's made a mistake," Jon countered, stepping down onto the snow-covered ground. "You and your father attacked the Night's Watch and slaughtered hundreds of soldiers. You forced my sister to marry you, a Southerner ruling over people who don't want you here, and you're too stupid to see that removing the Free Folk hurts all of us."

His lips pursed, Edric said "You know nothing, Jon Snow." He had the satisfaction of seeing Jon's face blanch, as if he had been struck by a ghost.

They rode out from Castle Black, everyone knowing that the die had been cast.

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

"Mace Tyrell?" Visenya asked, looking over the crumpled letter.

She sat in the Small Council chamber, at the head of the table, while Ser Bronn, Obara and Nymeria Sand stood off to the side. Ser Harras stood just behind her, as he had been by her side constantly since her brother had departed. Visenya felt the familiar ache in her heart; the news of Drakon's death had torn a gaping hole inside her, and every day she lived with the pain. Visenya placed a hand on her swollen belly; soon enough, her third child would be born, and like its brother and sister, it would grow up never knowing their great, wonderful, strong father.

Now, though, she had to focus on a more pressing issue.

"It makes sense, really," Ser Bronn said, his arms crossed. "Only someone with that kind of authority could arm the Sparrows."

"But Mace Tyrell is an imbecile," Visenya said. "His mother says it all the time. Besides, what reason could he have to turn against my family?"

"His daughter would have been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms before your husband took power," Nymeria said. "And his son would have been in a position to secure an alliance with another House. But now his son serves on the Kingsguard, and his daughter is now just a noble lady, not the queen."

Visenya set the letter on the table. "First the Sparrows' revolt, then my husband's death, and now these attacks in the Reach. It would seem you Westerosi are all too eager to destroy yourselves."

"If Mace Tyrell is the traitor, then let us kill him," Obara said.

"We can't do that," Visenya told the eldest Sand Snake. "House Tyrell is closely tied with my own; if we kill Mace, then the results would be catastrophic. We would have civil war."

"In my experience, war is never civil," Ser Bronn said.

The door opened, and they all looked over to see a Septa enter the chamber. As she approached, it became clear that this was no ordinary Septa. Nymeria struggled to contain her laughter as Tyene said "I hate wearing this stupid thing!" She clawed at the garment wrapped around her head, tearing it off and leaving her hair a frizzled mess.

"What have you learned?" Visenya asked.

Blowing an errant strand of hair from her eyes, Tyene replied "The High Sparrow believes that the Hand of the King has given a decree restoring the Faith Militant."

"That would explain why they are so brazen," Visenya said.

"I overheard the High Sparrow talking with some Septas. They said that everything was in place, and he mentioned some kind of inquisition. I heard your name, Your Grace."

"So that bare-footed fanatic wants me to confess my sins in some sort of trial?"

"Probably has something to do with those rumours about you, I'd expect."

"You might have a point, Ser Bronn."

"What will you do, Your Grace?" Nymeria asked.

Visenya mulled it over. The High Sparrow obviously sought to destroy her, first by claiming King's Landing through force, and now by thoroughly discrediting her before the entire populace. She remembered Lady Olenna's advice about being seen by the people; perhaps this was an opportunity to beat the High Sparrow at his own game. "I'll play along," she said. "If he wants to have an inquisition, then let him. I have nothing to hide."

The Sand Snakes shared nervous glances. Visenya knew she was playing with fire, but she was Blood of the Dragon, and fire could never kill a Dragon.

Bells began to ring out in the city, and Visenya stood, with the assistance of Ser Harras. She walked over to a window and saw a ship entering the harbour. It bore a black Dragon's head breathing thorny vines on its green sails.

Edwyn.

Turning to face the Sand Snakes and Ser Bronn, she said "Follow every member of the Small Council. I want their every movement plotted; report anything you find to me."

"You're thinking Mace Tyrell isn't working alone?" Ser Bronn asked.

"I think he is too stupid to plot against me in this manner. Someone wants us to believe he is responsible, and I want them found. Take the side passages and secret corridors to remain hidden."

They all nodded and bowed before leaving through the door hidden behind an alcove in one of the adjoining corridors.

Visenya, escorted by Ser Harras, made her way down to the harbour. By the time she arrived, it had dropped anchor, and a longboat was rowing its way ashore. Rona stood on the beach, her arms crossed. "Your Grace," she said, her tone rigid and formal. Their relationship had never moved beyond strict formality, and Visenya frankly did not care. All that mattered to her was her family.

The boat pulled up to the shore, and Edwyn climbed out along with Randyll Tarly and Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. The latter and Ser Harras nodded to each other.

"Edwyn," Visenya said, offering a sympathetic smile as she embraced the young man. He did not return the gesture, and his body felt stiff and tense. It was understandable, given that he saw his father die. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. Visenya stepped back, and Rona embraced Edwyn next. His arms wrapped around her, and they held each other tight, sharing in their grief.

Visenya looked at the boat they arrived on, and noticed only servants. "Where are Samwell and the other Kingsguard?"

"They stayed behind to…look for my father's body."

She nodded. "You both should know that much has changed since you left."

"It is to be expected, after the death of a king," Randyll Tarly said.

"Yes, but I'm afraid the situation is worse than that. Have you ever heard of House Darklight?"

Edwyn and Randyll Tarly shook their heads.

"They are a small noble House from the Westerlands," Visenya explained. "It would seem that they are, in actuality, House Darklyte. They claim to be descended from a bastard of Aegon IV, just like my husband's House. For the moment, their ancestry does not matter, because they have assassinated Harys Swyft and claimed his army. They have invaded the Reach."

"What?"

"How could this happen?" Edwyn asked, his eyes ablaze with the fires of vengeance.

"All we know is that Kevan Lannister left Sae Darklyte in command of Casterly Rock when he went to face you and your brother at Riverrun," Rona replied. "She sent secret dispatches to the commanders of Harys Swyft's army, and they conspired to have him killed, along with all those who would not swear allegiance to her family. She and her brother now command a force of 14,000 men, and they have allied themselves with Euron Greyjoy, who assassinated Rodrik Harlaw and declared himself King of the Iron Islands."

Visenya glanced at Ser Harras, who gripped his sword handle tightly. He was still angry over news of his cousin's death, and like Edwyn, desired vengeance.

"We need to act quickly to contain this madness," Randyll Tarly said. "Head back to the ships, and have the fleet sail back to the Arbor!" he shouted at the servants in the boat. As they rowed away, he looked at Edwyn and said "Come, my lord, we must leave immediately. I'll send word to my son at Horn Hill. He will marshal our forces and await us there. We shall drive out these rebels and crush them!"

* * *

 _ **The Wall…**_

"So what do we do now?" Rolfe asked. He, Ser Davos, Edd, Tormund, and Gjalda were gathered in Jon Snow's office. The bastard sat at his desk, his fingers intertwined. "We can't just let that little shit come back here with an army."

"That cunt wants to send us back across the Wall, back to our deaths," Tormund said, sounding remarkably calm for someone with every reason to be furious. "We won't go back, Snow. I'd rather slit my daughters' throats than let the White Walkers have them."

"Don't you worry, Tormund," Gjalda said. "I'll have Hildi tear the boy open from balls to neck. He won't be any danger to us when his blood'll fertilize the soil."

"Killing Edric Blackfyre won't solve the problem," Jon said. "He was right about one thing: most of the Northern Lords want the Free Folk gone, and they're the ones who'll bring an army. Tormund, how many of your people can fight?"

The ginger and Gjalda exchanged a glance. "Maybe…2,000. The rest are children, old people."

"We can't fight the whole North with only 2,000 Wildlings who don't know the first thing about fighting trained soldiers," Rolfe said. "We need more men, but right now I don't see where we can get any more."

"We've got plenty more black brothers since that Blackfyre king took over," Edd said. "Most of 'em probably have some reason to hate him and his family."

Jon shook his head. "We can't have the Night's Watch abandon their posts all at once. They need to be here, preparing for when the Walkers finally come."

"But you can abandon your post, is that what you're saying?" Edd asked.

Jon leaned back in his chair. "When my brother Robb went to war, I had a choice: stay here and follow my oath, or become a deserter to go help him avenge our father. I decided to stay, because I was bound to serve the Night's Watch until my death."

"And now?" Rolfe asked.

"Now, I'm faced with that same choice. Only this time it isn't just about following oaths or bickering Houses. It's about the living and the dead, and the dead are coming. If Edric Blackfyre kills or expels the Free Folk, then he'll be playing right into the Night King's hands, and we'll all be fucked in the long term. If it means breaking my oath to save thousands of lives, then it's not even a choice."

Tormund and Gjalda gave him approving nods. Rolfe walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. "I've served the Night's Watch for over forty years. It can spare me for a few months. I'm with you, lad, wherever the road takes us."

Just then, a horn sounded, and the door opened as a brother entered. "Riders approaching, Lord Commander."

"Oh for fuck's sakes!" Rolfe said. "What now?"

They all walked out into the courtyard as the gates opened. A number of riders appeared, along with a small escort. They were nobles, judging by their clothing and bearing. One was an especially fat man, who no doubt strained his horse's back, with a thick mustache and a silver and sapphire trident clasping his cloak. Two of them were younger, though still fully grown men, wearing armour, and they were so alike in age and appearance that Rolfe thought they were brothers. The last was the most surprising, as she was just a little girl, barely older than ten, though she bore a fierce expression that could stop an Ice Bear in its tracks.

Rolfe followed Jon as he approached the group of nobles. One of the two men wearing armour dismounted and walked towards the bastard. He had a full beard, and his shoulder-length hair framed a scarred, handsome face that had seen its fair share of war. "Jon Snow," he greeted. "I'm Rodrik, of House Forrester. This is my brother Asher, Ser Wylis Manderly, and Lady Lyanna Mormont."

"Welcome to Castle Black, my lord," Jon greeted, holding out a hand.

Rodrik Forrester shook it. "I'll get right to it, then: our Houses are still loyal to House Stark, the true rulers of the North. We want to see that Blackfyre pretender tossed back to the South where he came from, and we want you to claim your rightful place as King in the North and Eddard Stark's successor. What do you say?"

Jon looked back at Rolfe, Edd, Tormund, and Gjalda. He was silent for several moments. Ghost appeared by his side, nuzzling against his arm. Jon petted the Direwolf, and took a deep breath. "Aye, I'll fight with you."

Rodrik Forrester nodded, as did Rolfe. With any luck, he would be able to avenge the murder of his son by killing the son of Sebastion's murderer.

Never forgive. Never forget.

* * *

 **Phew, this chapter turned out to be waaay longer than I thought. Oh well, I hope it's more bang for my buck.**

 **Euron is one of my favourite characters. I love Pilou Asbaek's deliciously demented performance on the show, but I'm also really intrigued by the book version of Euron, who comes across as the Viking anti-Christ, so I decided to merge the two into one character for this story. I hope you enjoy him!**

 **Small retcon: Cat, the hunter who led Drakon to the Brotherhood Without Banners in The Black Dragon, is now called Katryna, as 'Cat' with auburn hair tied into a braid is too similar to Catelyn, hence the name change.**

 **I hope you all enjoy this extra-long chapter! Please review/favourite!**

 **nanold: Thanks! I hope you're enjoying this season.**

 **krasni: That's one of the things that motivated me to write this sequel. I really wanted Drakon and Dany to get together, because to not do so would be a disservice to this story. They are both Valyrian descendants, belong to the same family (through their ancestor Aegon IV), and their lives have been very similar, ie losing children and gaining Dragons. Their shared captivity will give them a chance to get to know each other better and understand each other, given that they are family and they shouldn't be fighting each other. As for Edric and Jon, I'm setting them up as rivals. Each of the Blackfyre children has their own arc/main rival to deal with. For Jayne, it's the leader of the conspiracy in the Vale, for Edwyn, it'll be Saernys Darklyte, and for Edric, it's Jon Snow. Their conflict will be kind of like the one between Jon and Ramsay on the show, but more like a military campaign that culminates into a single battle rather than just a single battle.**

 **Lord Pyrus: I'm glad you're enjoying it! It's good to know I'm doing your characters justice.**

 **Coffee Targaryen: Thanks!**

 **TheOnlyKing: That's always nice to hear. I hope it's a good story, too.**

 **Guest: Thank you!**


	30. Of Kings and Men

_**The Dothraki Sea…**_

 _When Drakon opened his eyes, he was no longer in the Dothraki Sea, surrounded by the multitudes of the Khalasar. Instead, he was standing on a desolate hilltop, overlooking a vast plain. The grass was dead, the ground was grey and lifeless, and ash rained down from above to dust 1,000 skeletal corpses._

 _Drakon had seen such sights many times before, on battlefields uncounted. No matter how decisive, now matter how long it was fought, a battle was nothing more than a desperate struggle for two sides to win by killing their enemies and surviving until the end. The songs and tales never mentioned the stench of shit, the embarrassment of dropping one's weapon due to blood covering their hands. To the west was a river that ran from the horizon. It was choked with blood, and as it came closer, it split into three branches. Drakon gasped as he realised just where he was: the Trident._

 _At the shallow ford before the split, there was a corpse half-lying in the bloody river, silver hair drenched crimson. It was resplendent in black battle plate, and Drakon could see that the chest piece was caved in._

 _"No," he said, the blood draining from his face as he recognised the corpse._

 _"Hello, brother," someone said from behind._

 _Drakon whirled and saw the one person he would give his own life to resurrect. "Rhaegar!"_

 _Rhaegar smiled. He appeared as he did in the river below, skin pallid and chest piece caved in. "It has been some time, has it not?" He looked him over, then said "You look well, Drakon. It seems your Targaryen ancestry reared itself after all."_

 _Drakon inspected a strand of his silver hair. "It would seem so."_

 _Rhaegar took a moment to look around the battlefield. "This is where it all ended for me, when Robert Baratheon smashed my chest with his warhammer."_

 _"Everything ended for me, also," Drakon said, bitterness rising like bile in his throat._

 _"Yes, but I only died, brother. You survived."_

 _"Not a day has gone by where I do not wish that I had died as well. Joining you in death would have been much easier than to continue living in this black, wretched world we are all condemned to suffer."_

 _The spectre of Rhaegar looked at him with a queer expression. "Perhaps. But I was not the only one who died, was I?"_

 _In a blink, they were no longer standing on the hilltop. Instead, they were standing in a corridor of blood-red stone that could only have been in the Red Keep, and Drakon recognised the area as Maegor's Holdfast. One of the doors was open, and a scream came from within. Drakon blanched, and his knees buckled as he said "No!" His voice was little more than a whisper._

 _He heard footsteps, and turned to see a younger version of himself, barely over twenty with brown hair, running right through him._

 _In another blink, Drakon and Rhaegar were standing behind Drakon's younger self, who stood at the threshold of the prince's chambers. Within were several figures, all frozen as if in a painting: Elia Martell, beautiful yet thin and weak, her face contorted into an expression of terror as she held her infant son, Aegon, while her young daughter, Rhaenys, cowered under the bed. Amory Lorch stood before them, a knife in hand. Towering over them all, however, was the monstrous form of the Mountain, his face twisted into a savage snarl._

 _"Please, don't make me see this again."_

 _"You see this every day, do you not? Every time you sleep, you relive this moment, your greatest failure. I loved Elia, in my own way," Rhaegar said. "I never meant to harm her. She gave me two wonderful children; I only wish I had lived long enough to see them grow, to see them become a true prince and princess."_

 _Despite being a figment of Drakon's imagination, Rhaegar sounded full of regret. Drakon liked to think that the real Rhaegar would have felt that way about humiliating his wife and children before inadvertently causing their deaths._

 _As if by some unspoken command, the figures began moving, and Drakon was subjected to the horror once more. The Mountain ripped Aegon from Elia's grasp, dashing the babe's head against the wall._

 _Drakon stared down at the floor, lacking the strength to look at the scene of brutality unfolding before him. He finally collapsed as the screams continued, covering his ears. "Please, make it stop! I beg you!"_

 _"Why, Drakon? Why did you not save them?"_

 _There was no anger in Rhaegar's voice, only confusion._

 _"I…could not face the Mountain."_

 _"Why not? You could have taken him by surprise, stabbed him in the throat. The other man was nothing; you could have killed him easily."_

 _Drakon curled into a ball on the floor, shivering. "I was not strong enough to face them!"_

 _"You were personally trained in combat by Ser Barristan Selmy, the finest knight who ever lived. You spent nearly every waking hour for a decade practicing swordplay. You were one of the finest swordsmen in the realm at age twenty. Why, Drakon? Why did you not save my family?"_

 _"Because…because I was afraid!" Drakon shouted, his throat feeling raw as the truth he had buried for decades tore through him into the open._

 _The screams stopped, but they still echoed in his ears._

 _"I had heard the stories about the Mountain, and as much as I wanted to kill him in that moment, I could not. That was the day I killed my first man. I had read about combat, trained for it all my life, but that was not combat; that was simple brutality, the execution of helpless children. I was too much of a coward in the face of such…ruthlessness."_

 _"But that is not the only reason, is it?" Rhaegar asked._

 _"No."_

 _"You were always jealous of me, brother, that much I could tell. I never thought less of you because of it, and I never let it affect our friendship."_

 _"You were perfect," Drakon said, the torchlight flickering in the edges of his vision. "The beautiful, noble prince destined for greatness. And I? I was the son of a rebel and a whore, a piece of garbage your father brought back to the Red Keep. I could never be more than a mistake, while you were perfection itself. You were everything I wanted to be, and you had everything I ever wanted, including a wife and children."_

 _"You let your fear and your jealousy take control of you that day." It was not a question._

 _Still shivering, Drakon simply replied "Yes."_

 _In a blink, they were once again on the barren hilltop, overlooking the bloody river and field of corpses. Rhaegar crouched before him, holding out a hand. Drakon took it, and the shade of his fallen brother helped him to stand. "You failed me that day, brother. You failed my family. But you still have a chance at redemption."_

 _"Please, tell me," Drakon said, gripping Rhaegar by the shoulders._

 _"Daenerys still lives, Drakon. You are the only family she has left. Help her, teach her what you know. Help the Houses Blackfyre and Targaryen rise from the ashes together."_

 _"Yes, of course! I promise I will not fail you. Not again!"_

 _Rhaegar smiled. "I know you won't. Goodbye, Drakon. Until the next time we meet."_

* * *

Drakon gasped as his eyes shot open. He sat up, his heart thundering and his bare skin drenched in sweat. A cool breeze blew over him, and he shivered from the sensation. Looking up, he saw the night sky, with a hint of orange light on the horizon. The tents of the Dothraki horde were still surrounding him, and most appeared to still be asleep.

Daenerys sat beside him, looking at him with a guarded expression. Drakon could tell, though, that there was the slightest hint of concern in her eyes.

"You were shaking all night."

"Bad dreams," he explained. "Memories of another life."

"You were…talking in your sleep," Daenerys said, sounding strangely hesitant. "You were saying 'forgive me, forgive me'. What did you see?"

Drakon gave her a faint smile. "I saw Rhaegar."

Her eyes flashed, and he could see how she was restraining herself from asking any questions. She most likely thought it would make her appear weak before a rival.

"I have many regrets in my life, Daenerys. I have compromised myself, murdering and lying my way onto the Iron Throne. I learned my lessons well from teachers such as Tywin Lannister, rather than remain the honourable, aspiring knight that Rhaegar knew. I suppose we both have lost our way since his death."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'both of us'? I am not the one who betrayed his oath and stole the crown from its rightful ruler."

"Perhaps. But I have heard stories, Daenerys Stormborn. You have also killed and conquered your way to power. The Masters united and came to me because you presented a threat to their entire existence. You fed people to your Dragons, executed slaves who had supported you because they disobeyed your commands. You asked me what Rhaegar would have thought of me now, and I told you he would be ashamed of me. Now I ask you: what would your brother think of you? Would he look on your actions with pride? Or have you also compromised in order to achieve a greater goal?"

Daenerys looked away from him, her lips pursed. "I did what I had to in order to survive."

"So have I. But we will need to do so much more than just survive if we want to make this world a better place. We must be in a position where we can cleanse the filth of this world, just as I did in Westeros. Yes, I exterminated several Great Houses and blasted several castles with my Dragons, but those Houses and castles were filled with traitors and oathbreakers and usurpers. Westeros is now more unified than it has been in over three centuries! We can do that for the whole world, for we are Dragons. We both have Targaryen blood in our veins."

"After everything that has happened between us, all the death and destruction and betrayals, do you honestly believe that we can…move on? That all is forgiven? You swore to serve me, to see my claim to the Iron Throne fulfilled. And yet you took it upon yourself to claim the throne for yourself. In the end, all you did was ensure the dominance of House Blackfyre, not House Targaryen."

"When you conquered Meereen and learned of Joffrey Lannister's death, why did you not sail for Westeros?" Drakon asked. "You had a large, effective army, three Dragons, and a strong claim. The Great Houses would have fallen in line eventually, so why did you decide to remain in exile? Why stay in Essos when you have spent your entire life wanting to return home?"

"It would have been the wrong decision," Daenerys replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "I needed to learn how to rule, how to be the queen that Westeros deserved."

"You desired to end slavery."

Daenerys said nothing, but her eyes told Drakon that he had spoken truth.

"You felt like a slave your whole life, trapped in your brother's grip. Then you were sold like cattle to Khal Drogo. Then Xaro Xhoan Daxos and Pyat Pree sought to control you and your Dragons. I understand your need to end such a wrong; in Slaver's Bay, you saw an injustice that could no longer continue, and you made it your mission to eradicate it. That is why you did not leave."

"You claim to understand why I need to end slavery, and yet you were content to ally with the Masters. Your soldiers were content to lay with slaves while you and your Dragons besieged my city."

It was Drakon's turn to look away, the familiar bile of shame returning to his throat. "I thought it a necessary evil. All that mattered to me was getting my son back; once that was done, I was going to have the Masters and their soldiers killed." Daenerys gave him a disapproving frown, and he found that he could not quite meet her iron gaze. "For a time after the death of Rhaegar and most of your family, I lived here in Essos. I wandered the Free Cities, bereft of a home and a family. I saw how the wealthy rulers treated their slaves, how it was the bedrock on which these cities endure. All that mattered to me was vengeance against my enemies, and I taught myself to look away, to ignore what I did not want to see. I ignored a great many things since then."

"And now you seek redemption," Daenerys said.

"Yes. I seek the chance to become the man Rhaegar would have been proud of, and I wish to help you accomplish your destiny. I have wronged you and your family. I recognize that, now. All I can do is to beg your forgiveness and ask for your help in creating a better world."

Daenerys was silent for several moments, her brow furrowed in thought. Before she had the chance to speak, though, a group of Bloodriders approached them. Apparently, it was time for the horde to get moving. One of them held out a hand for Daenerys, who sneered at the man; she knew that the gesture was more of an expectation, and not an offer.

She took it, and was guided onto her horse, while Drakon was roughly brought to his feet. The rope tied to his bonds was lashed around the saddle of Daenerys' horse. Before long, they were on the move.

Later, as the Khalasar crossed the vast expanses of grass and dirt, Daenerys turned to look down at Drakon. He had seen her glancing his way several times already.

"What was he like?" she asked. "Rhaegar?"

Drakon looked up at her with his good eye. "Did Viserys never tell you anything?"

Her expression soured. "My brother was a fool who didn't know anything about anything. He would only ever talk about how Rhaegar was betrayed, how the Dragon was slaughtered by his subjects."

"Yes, Viserys was a fool. But he was nothing like Rhaegar." Her inquisitive gaze led him to continue. "Rhaegar was…perfect. He was handsome and noble, everything that makes princesses gush over stories of courtly romance. He was beloved by noble and commoner alike; people suffered under Aerys' rule for so long because they knew Rhaegar would be a far better king."

Daenerys smiled, and Drakon was glad to give her answers about her past that were otherwise lost to her.

"When I was a boy, fourteen I think, I went exploring in the tunnels underneath King's Landing. I was still unfamiliar with their layout, and inevitably I became lost. I had wanted to emerge outside, so I could get a glimpse of the sea, but instead I was lost in darkness. I was trapped down there for three days and three nights, wandering the tunnels and sewers of the capital. There was nothing but silence and darkness down there. I was alone, forced to eat rats and drink rainwater in order to survive."

"How did you get out of there?"

"On the fourth day, I began to hear a song. It started in low, then it started to grow. It became my guide, and I followed it until I found a sewer grate. I had grown so accustomed to the darkness that the sunlight was blinding. After a few minutes, my eyes began to adjust, and I climbed out onto a street, covered in shit and reeking of dead rats. My hair was greasy and matted, my skin blackened, and my body thin from malnourishment. I followed the song around the corner, and there was Rhaegar, sitting in front of a tavern.

"I learned afterwards that, after discovering my absence, he played his music up and down the streets of King's Landing for three days and nights, hoping they would lead me back to him. Ser Barristan stood guard beside him, collecting donations in his helmet. He did not recognize me, at first, because of my filth, but Rhaegar did. He kept playing and smiled at me."

"What happened after?" Daenerys asked, appearing captivated.

"We returned to the Red Keep. His father was furious, accusing me of sneaking out to conspire with his enemies. Rhaegar tried to defend me, but the king would hear none of it. As punishment, I was locked inside my room for a month with no visitors." Drakon felt as if he were reliving that experience, the characters and events so vivid in his mind. "When I saw Rhaegar sitting in front of that tavern, singing his song, it was the first time I truly realized the divide between us. Though we were brothers, he would always be the shining, beautiful prince destined to inherit a kingdom, while I was the son of a despised rebel and some eastern whore, covered in shit and forever locked in the shadow of my betters."

Drakon fell silent, then, and the rest of the day passed with no more conversation. He was glad for the respite, as he had had enough recollections for one day.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Edric read the letter again as he paced. The previous two times had been enough to absorb the information it contained, but he wanted to be absolutely sure. The small piece of parchment was the first crack that would tear the North asunder; it would be his first real test as Warden of the North. "So now we know," he said, tossing the letter on the table.

"I always knew it. Those fucking Forresters could never be trusted!"

Ludd Whitehill pounded a fist on the wooden table for emphasis. He was a fat man, whose angry scowl looked well-worn on his ugly face. He had been one of the few lords to answer Edric's call for banners, and the young Blackfyre almost wished he had not.

House Whitehill had been staunch Bolton bannermen for centuries. Ludd and his family had managed to slip away from his liege's fate by swearing allegiance to Edric's father.

To the fat man's left sat Harald Karstark, son of Rickard Karstark and current ruler of his House. Edric knew that the Karstarks still bore a grudge against House Stark due to Robb Stark's actions in the War of Five Kings, which guaranteed Harald's support against Jon Snow. Across from them sat Smalljon Umber, who dwarfed them all in size. Together, the three men had personally committed their Houses to House Blackfyre of Winterfell, while Houses Glover, Cerwyn, and Dustin had sent soldiers as well.

Edric kept pacing as Ludd said "I knew from the beginning that those Forresters would be nothing but trouble. They're a lying, cheating bunch of shits that never deserved their Ironwood!"

"From what I understand, they took better care of their Ironwood than you did," Edric said, his patience wearing thin.

"We had no choice but to harvest all of ours! The Forresters guarded their share like a one-toothed whore with a copper coin! It's no surprise that—"

"Do you ever shut up?" Smalljon asked, exasperated.

"It's not the Forresters we need to worry about," Harald said, looking at the letter. "It's the Manderlys. They've got over 2,000 men, which puts Jon Snow in a better position than us since he also has 2,000 Wildlings that can fight."

Adding the numbers in his head, Edric said "Between the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Whitehills, the Glovers, the Cerwyns, and the Dustins, we have 3,500 soldiers."

"And between the Forresters, Mormonts, Manderlys, and Wildlings, they've got 4,600 soldiers."

"What's the matter, Karstark? You scared?" Smalljon asked, a smirk on his face. "Numbers might seem like they win battles, but in the end it's strength that matters, your will to fight crushing that of your enemy's. Snow could have 10,000 men fighting for him, but it doesn't matter. Sure, he's a fine swordsman from what I hear, but he's never led men into battle, not in a real war. And the Wildlings have no fucking clue what it means to fight as part of an army. They're vicious, but only when they're in smaller raiding parties. So, the numbers don't matter. 3,500 men is more than enough to beat them."

As Edric sat down, he said "My father used to tell me that the key to winning a battle was maximizing the effectiveness of the troops you have, not relying on overwhelming numbers."

"So let's march up there and kill the whole fucking lot of 'em," Ludd said, waving a hand.

"That's a brilliant idea, Lord Whitehill, it really is," Edric said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "While we're at it, why don't we just open the gates and surrender right now?"

The fat man's brow furrowed. "What—"

"Three Northern Houses have declared for Jon Snow because they prefer to follow the Starks than the Blackfyres, and as far as they are concerned, he is the last Stark. They have 1,000 years of loyalty to House Stark guiding them, and that kind of loyalty makes any one of their soldiers fight like ten of our men. So don't overestimate them, Lord Whitehill, or your head might end up separated from your body, just like your son's."

Ludd's face reddened like an apple. "Don't mention my son to me, you little shit! Gryff was a good, loyal boy, and the Forresters cut him down like a dog!"

Harald said "The Starks caused the deaths of all those Northerners in the War of Five Kings. Robb Stark cut off my father's head. As far as I'm concerned, our blood ties are gone. House Stark can hang, for all I care."

Edric heard footsteps and turned in his char to see Sansa standing in the doorway, Brienne just behind her.

"My lady," Harald said, standing up as he attempted to conceal his embarrassed expression.

"Would you excuse us?" she asked, stepping inside as she looked at Edric.

He had a bad feeling about what she had to say.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Blackfyre, but we have important matters to discuss," Smalljon said."

"Perhaps I was not clear enough, my lords," Sansa said. "Get out."

Her tone cast a chill through the room, and the three Northern Lords glanced at each other. Reluctantly, they stood and walked out, Ludd being the last. Even his naturally combative personality was subdued by Sansa's authoritative demeanor and Brienne's hardened stare. Edric was now alone with his wife.

"I know what you're going to say," he said.

"Then why haven't you already talked this through with Jon?"

Edric sighed. "It's not that simple, Sansa."

"Yes, it is. You're the Warden of the North. Tell the Northern Houses to stand down and work this out."

He stood and walked over to the fireplace. "I can't install peace when half the North is rising up in rebellion. I have a duty to ensure the security of the realm, and those traitorous lords need to be brought to heel."

"So you're just going to kill Jon, is that it? He's my brother, Edric!"

"Don't you think I know that?" he asked, whirling to face her. "Sansa, the last thing I want to do is kill your only sibling, but I have to think of the North! I promise you, I will do everything I can to spare him, but he and his allies are threatening war. If those lords march against me, then their lives are forfeit."

"And what of Shireen Baratheon?" Sansa asked, her gaze firm and unbending. "Can you really say to me that you're going to murder an innocent girl?"

Edric was silent for a moment, his fingers clenching and unclenching out of frustration. "My father sentenced the Greyjoys, the Freys, the Boltons, and the Baratheons to death. I have to follow my king's command, Sansa."

"You already killed her father, and he was the one threatening your father's rule. What harm could she possibly cause at the edge of the world?"

In his heart, Edric knew she was right. He didn't want to kill anyone, especially Jon or Shireen. But he also wanted to honour his father, his king, a man who had been strong enough to make the difficult choices for the salvation of the realm. "My father—"

"Is dead, Edric. He's gone. If you really want to be a great lord, then you'll have to start making your own choices."

He stared down at the floor, the hard truths biting more than Ramsay's thumb ever had.

Sansa stepped over to him and, holding his chin, lifted his head so they locked eyes. "A lord has to make difficult choices, many of them involving war and death, but you're going to need a much better reason than 'my father told me to'."

Closing his eye, he buried his head into her shoulder, taking comfort from her touch as she wrapped her arms around him. They simply stood there, by the firelight, Edric being the one comforted by Sansa for a change. He relished the moment, for he could forget about his burdens and focus on how it felt to be with the woman he loved. "I want to do the right thing, Sansa, but most of the time I have no clue as to what the right thing is."

"None of us do," she said. "All we can do is act the best way we can, with no regrets."

"I swear to you that I will do my best to ensure that Jon lives, but war is never clean or without loss. The next few months will decide the fate of the North. And the fate of us."

He could feel Sansa's tears on his cheek.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

"I am sorry, my lord," Maester Colemon somberly stated. "He is gone."

Jayne covered her mouth as her eyes watered with tears. She stood off to the side of her father-in-law's chambers. Lord Yohn Royce, the most powerful man in the Vale and one of her father's staunchest supporters, lay dead on his bed. The blood had been washed away, but his skin was as pale as the coldest winter snow, and his eyes stared up at the ceiling, as if searching for answers in the beyond.

Andar knelt beside his father's bed, holding his hand as he wept. Jayne had never seen him so crushed, so vulnerable. A warrior, a lord he may be, but in this moment Andar was a son who just lost his father.

Jayne wiped the tears from her eyes. Her grief could come later; now, she needed to focus on the moment. Someone had just assassinated the Lord of the Vale, and they needed to be found and eliminated before they could destabilize her new home any further. "The servant who poured the wine. Has he said anything?" she asked one of the guards who stood by the door.

"No, m'lady," the man replied. "He maintains his innocence. Says he had no idea the wine was poisoned."

"Perhaps," Jayne said, sorting through her thoughts. "Question him further. Do not be gentle."

The guard nodded, then left.

Jayne looked back at Andar, who sobbed into his father's hand. She walked over to Maester Colemon and, in a quiet tone, said "Maester, please see to it that my husband is given Essence of Nightshade to help him sleep. He will need it."

"Of course, my lady," the thin man said.

"Husband," Jayne said, placing a hand on Andar's shoulder. "Go, rest. I shall take care of all the arrangements." He did not resist as Maester Colemon gently brought him to his feet and ushered him out into the corridor. Adrya joined her by her side, touching her arm. Jayne took her handmaiden's hand, grateful for her presence. "We need to act, before our enemies can do any more harm."

"M'lady?"

Jayne glanced at the guards, then whispered "I want you to start a rumour with the other servants in the castle. Make it look like you are performing your regular duties, and if anyone inquires as to Lord Yohn, tell them he is alive, but near-death."

"M'lady, I don't—"

"You must do this!" Jayne whispered, gripping her handmaiden's arm tightly. "For me. The survival of my family, my child, depends on this. Can I trust you?"

"Of course." Adrya held her gaze for a moment, appearing hesitant, but she eventually turned and walked out of the lord's chambers.

Jayne breathed a heavy sigh. The next few hours were critical, and she could not afford to make any mistakes. She returned her attention to the guards, who looked at her with expectation. "Come," she commanded. All eight of them gathered in front of her, and she said "Someone has murdered your liege lord. They will come here before long, believing he is still alive. When they come, you must be ready to arrest them. Am I understood?"

They all nodded.

"Leave this room and wait in the storeroom down the corridor. Send for me when the assassin shows themselves." Jayne then walked out of the room. To the two guards flanking the door she said "Ensure that no one disturbs Lord Yohn. Arrangements will be made in the morning."

"Yes, m'lady."

"Yes, m'lady."

With that, she made her way to hers and Andar's chambers. She spotted Malcom waiting in an alcove past the door and walked over to him.

"What is it you need, m'lady?"

"Listen to me very carefully," Jayne said. She then explained her plan, and what she required of the servant to do.

* * *

Later, having fallen asleep with Aegor in her arms, Jayne was awoken by Carellen Stokeworth. "My lady. My lady, there is news."

Jayne groaned as she shed the haze of sleep. "What is it?" She felt Andar stirring beside her, waking from his own slumber.

"Someone set several tapestries aflame in the northeast wing. The guards standing watch over Lord Yohn's body went to help put out the fires. The guards you had waiting nearby saw a man enter the lord's chambers with a knife. They burst in and captured him."

Andar tore the covers off and got to his feet, his nostrils flaring. "Someone thought to murder my father, thinking he was still alive? Who is this cur?"

Carellen opened the door to their chambers opened. A pair of guards dragged a struggling man inside. They threw him onto the ground, and Carellen shoved him onto his back with her foot, her hand on her sword. Though he wore anonymous black garments, his face was unforgettable.

"Osfryd Kettleblack," Andar said, his voice barely above a whisper as he tried to wrap his mind around this latest turn of events.

Jayne, Aegor still in her arms, stood from the bed and joined her husband. "He was likely the one who poisoned your father," she whispered in his ear. "When he thought your father still lived, he sought to finish the job himself."

"You don't deserve the Vale!" Osfryd spat. "You're not worthy!"

Andar kicked him in the face, knocking him unconscious. "Throw this swine in a Sky Cell! His trial will begin tomorrow." Osfryd was summarily dragged out of their chambers.

Jayne held her son tight, her lips pressed in a frown. That was one enemy taken care of, but what about the others? At the very least, Osfryd's father was implicated, but she had to find a way to prove it. Even if there were a small chance of him being innocent, she could not take that chance. He had to be eliminated.

Malcom had done his job well, distracting the guards to make Lord Yohn's assassin think the way was clear. Jayne had a few more thoughts of how he could be useful.

* * *

 _ **The Wall…**_

Davos Seaworth drank from his tankard of ale. It was a hearty, foul substance, but he had tasted much worse in his time as a smuggler or living in Flea Bottom. It had character, much like the Northerners who brewed it. His time in the North was proving to be very illuminating, as many of his pre-conceptions were proved equal parts true and false.

It was a land of frozen mystery.

Shireen sat across from him at the table on the outer edge of Castle Black's courtyard. The precious little girl was nearing sixteen, something that Davos still could not wrap his head around. It seemed only yesterday that she was a tiny little thing, pestering him for stories of his adventures or for the chance to sail on a ship.

"Princess," he greeted, turning to face her in his chair.

Shireen stared down at the table, looking thoughtful. "I don't think I am a princess anymore. I'm not going to inherit any titles or crowns."

"You'll always be a princess to me," Davos said with a smile.

She smiled back, which gave the old man all the warmth he needed. "It's cold out here," Shireen said, clutching her arms as she shivered.

"Aye, it is."

"Did you ever visit the North, before you came here with my father?"

Davos nodded. "I sailed up to White Harbor many a time to trade. Even there, the winds are colder than anything down South. It got so cold that my beard hairs would crystallize. I swear I could hear them freezing over every day I was there."

Shireen giggled.

A number of men could be heard shouting from above, in the main hall. They had been doing so for the better part of two hours.

"They're talking about Edric Blackfyre, aren't they?" Shireen asked, her voice growing more serious in tone.

"They are."

"Everyone says he's dangerous, that he wants to come up here with an army and kill all the Wildlings. Is that true?"

Davos sighed. What to tell her? The last thing he wanted for her was for her to grow up knowing all about war and death. Why could she not just have a normal life? "It's all very complicated, I'm afraid. We're all trying to do what we think is best, and people…disagree over what that is."

Shireen nodded. "Everyone calls him 'Edric One-Eye'. How did he lose it?"

"A very bad man took it from him, child."

"That's awful," she said.

"Aye, I suppose it is." Davos looked down at his hand; next to a gouged eye, a few chopped fingers seemed quite trivial by comparison.

Shireen covered her left eye with a hand and looked around the courtyard. "I can still see, but everything's different. I can't imagine living like that all the time."

Davos smiled at her infinite capacity to sympathize with everyone around her. It was a quality that made her so rare, so precious, in a world where innocence and optimism were so often punished with cruelty and despair. He found himself wondering if it were possible for people like Shireen to make the world a better place than the one he and all those before had come to know.

Perhaps not, but Davos would fight until his final breath to see her have that chance.

"We should wait until our forces are fully gathered," Ser Wylis Manderly said. "Once we have the advantage of numbers, we can win back the North!"

Rolfe sat beside Jon at the head table, looking down at all the others. He had shed his black cloak, which he had worn for most of his life. It had become a second skin, traveling with the grizzled Ranger in countless Rangings beyond the Wall and forty years' worth of nights spent at Castle Black. Now, he wore a generic suit of leather armour that Stark soldiers wore.

"We can't afford to wait that long!" Gjalda countered. Her Shadowcat, Hildi, growled as it lay beside her, having its ear scratched by its master.

Tormund took a few steps forward. "She's right. If we wait, that one-eyed little boy will turn this into an all-out war. We need to slit his throat before that can happen."

Ser Wylis huffed, resting his arms on one of the tables in the main hall. The wood groaned in protest due to his immense weight. "You savages have no experience fighting a real war. We can't just rush into this; a proper response involves mustering what troops we have to deal with the threat."

"Spoken like a man who's afraid of battle," Asher Forrester quipped in between sips of ale. Rolfe smirked; he was quickly taking a liking to the younger Forrester sibling. The boy looked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight, and he had a pair of iron balls on him.

The fat man's face reddened. "Now listen here, boy—"

"This arguing is getting us nowhere!" Rodrik Forrester said, standing. He took the time to look everyone in the eye. "All of us here have suffered loss these last few years, every one of us. Our father was killed at the Red Wedding. Our family was brutalized by the Whitehills, and Ramsay Bolton stabbed our brother Ethan in the throat. Our little brother Ryon is still their prisoner, and our mother was cut down like a dog. We killed Whitehill's son, Gryff, but we lost our home in the process."

Rodrik took a shaky breath, and Rolfe saw his fists clenching. The man had a lot of built-up anger, and was trying to reign it in, at least until he had the chance to vent it by putting his sword through Edric Blackfyre and his allies.

"Our House suffered because for the first time in thousands of years, a Stark did not rule in Winterfell. As did others! And I will be damned before I let more of my family's blood be spilled because of some Blackfyre Southerner who thinks to rule our people! The Starks must return to their rightful place in the North."

Rolfe glanced at Jon, who stared down at their table in silence, hands held together, and said "We have all faced threats, both to the South and within our own borders. We marched to war to avenge the death of my father, and thousands of loyal soldiers were butchered because of the treachery of our own. We stood by for years while the Boltons ran roughshod over the North, flaying men and women alive. But all of that was a distraction. Edric Blackfyre is a distraction, because Winter is Coming."

"Aye," Ser Wylis said. "Once this war is over, we must prepare for winter. The Maesters say it'll be the worst in centuries. When Edric Blackfyre is ousted, we can return to our homes and wait out the storm."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Ser," Jon said. "Because the true enemy marches against us even now, and he will not wait out the storm. He brings the storm."

The boy's words caused a stir in the hall, and everyone started murmuring as they engaged in conversation.

Lyanna Mormont stood from where she sat, though the girl was still barely a finger's length shorter than everyone else gathered. Despite her young age, she demanded attention, and everyone silenced as they looked at her. "All the Northern Houses swore allegiance to House Stark. The Boltons, Umbers, Karstarks, Whitehills, Glovers, Cerwyns, and Dustins all turned their backs on that oath. But not House Mormont. House Mormont remembers. The North remembers! We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard; Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king, from this day until his last day."

The girl sat back down, smiling and nodding to Jon.

Ser Wylis then stood. "Lady Mormont speaks truly. My family has served House Stark for centuries. I bled countless times in the War of the Five Kings, fighting for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. After he died, I never thought I'd see his equal in my lifetime." He pointed at Jon and said "Jon Snow is the last Stark, the one meant to lead us! He is the White Wolf, the King in the North!"

The fat man drew his sword and knelt before Jon. Everyone in the hall started grunting or murmuring.

Rodrik Forrester, still standing, turned to look at the bastard. "I had the honour to fight under your brother in the War of the Five Kings, and I consider it an equal honour to have the chance to fight for you. House Forrester re-affirms its pledge to House Stark, and to Jon Stark, the King in the North!" He punctuated his words by drawing his sword and holding it aloft, as did his brother.

Everyone else drew their weapons and did the same. "The King in the North!" they cried as one. "The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!"

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

Visenya tasted bile in her mouth from the moment she was in sight of the Sept of Baelor. After her brother had wrested control of the Iron Throne from the Lannisters, he had made a great showing of allying their House with the Faith, the High Sparrow specifically. Even after living in Westeros these past few years, she never once placed her faith in the Seven.

Drakon never did; to him, religion was a tool to unify the people. To Visenya, it was just another misplaced act of searching for a higher power to give life meaning. The High Sparrow, and his army of fanatics, were nothing to her, and the fact that they dared rebel against her and her brother's House infuriated her.

"I should have them all burned," she muttered. Visenya placed a hand on her swollen belly and whispered in Valyrian "Don't worry, my sweet. All our enemies will burn, and then you will be safe."

She could hear the crowd before they came into view. As had become commonplace, a throng of Smallfolk were assembled near her. They shouted and cursed, calling her 'whore' and 'brother-fucker'. The last one made her blood boil; what right did these peasants have to slander her brother? He had been strong and brave and intelligent, and if he were still alive, he would have put all those who spoke ill of their family to death.

Eventually, they reached the stairs at the foot of the Sept. Her litter was gently placed on the ground, and the door was opened for her. "Your Grace," Ser Harras said, offering his hand.

Visenya took it, and he helped her to her feet. With him were Sers Balon Swann and Eustace Hunter of the Kingsguard, along with Ser Bronn and two hundred loyal Goldcloaks. Ser Benedict Mooton was guarding Daemon and Rhaenyra, as were Obara and Nymeria Sand.

Sparrows lined the stairs leading to the doors of the Sept. They stared down at them with blank, merciless faces, wielding their crude weapons. "We cannot allow you to enter the holy Sept with so many faithless soldiers," one of them, a man with piercing blue eyes, said. Visenya noticed many of his companions tightening their grips on their weapons. They were expecting a fight, and if she had her way, they would get one.

"Very well," she said, affecting a pleasant smile. "Ser Bronn and the Kingsguard will accompany me. The rest will remain out here."

The Sparrow looked as if he were about to argue the point, but after glancing at Ser Bronn and the heavily armed Kingsguard, he said "That is acceptable. Come, the High Septon is waiting."

They were escorted into the lower levels of the Sept, to a small room with three windows to the side and a door on the far side. Within, the High Sparrow stood, an amicable smile on his face. Sparrows lined the walls, and three Septas stood behind the old man. A chair had been placed in the centre, directly in the path of a sunbeam streaming in from a window. 'The light of the Seven' no doubt shining down on the wicked, a symbolic ploy that would never work on her.

"Welcome, Your Grace," the High Sparrow greeted. "Please, have a seat."

Biting back a venomous barb, Visenya kept her lips closed and sat down with all the grace and dignity she could muster.

"Your Grace, this is merely an inquest, not a full trial. There are widespread rumours about you that are, if proven true, cause to bring charges against you. Do you understand?"

"Of course. I have nothing to hide."

Though his lips smiled, the High Sparrow's eyes glinted with a ferocity that would have cowed any lesser person. "The potential charges that could be brought against you include perjury, blasphemy, and incest. Do you deny these?"

"They are nothing but malicious slander against me and my king. These rumours are baseless."

"So you deny that Drakon Blackfyre was your brother?"

Visenya's eyes began to water, and her jaw quivered. "He was my husband, my king, my love. The father of my children. And now he is dead, killed thousands of leagues from home. My children will have to grow up never knowing him."

"It is well known that the Targaryen family regularly engaged in incest between siblings, producing unclean offspring who continued the vile tradition."

"House Blackfyre has never engaged in that tradition. All the men of our family who sired children did so with properly wedded women, many of them from the Free Cities. My family comes from Lys, and my mother is a merchant of renown."

The High Sparrow did not look impressed. "Hm." He gestured to one of his Sparrows, who opened the door on the far side. A Goldcloak entered, flanked by two more Sparrows. He was average in appearance, with a slightly crooked nose and a rough stubble on his chin. Visenya did not recognize him, as there were thousands of city watch in King's Landing, but if the High Sparrow sought to use him in this 'inquest', then he must have some value. "Do you know this woman?"

"Of course," the Goldcloak said. "She is Visenya Blackfyre, Queen of Westeros."

"How did you come to meet?"

The man looked down at the floor and swallowed. Whatever he had to say, it appeared to cause him great distress. "I first met her at the Whispers, when King Drakon traveled there to train his Dragons in secret. She brought his Dragon Horn."

"What did they discuss?"

"His Grace commanded us to leave them alone, but we remained close by to protect him. I…managed to overhear some of their words. She told him that she was his sister, the daughter of Maelys Blackfyre and a noblewoman from Lys."

Visenya's blood boiled, and her eyes narrowed. She could see the Kingsguard and Ser Bronn casually reaching for their weapons, waiting for her command. She held up a finger, and they paused. She wanted to wait for the perfect moment.

"At first, there was no problem. The two of them talked and trained the Dragons together. But then, the following night, I happened to be walking on patrol near the old tower. I heard…they…"

"Go on," the High Sparrow said, almost radiant in his pleasure.

"They were fucking! I thought His Grace was a man of honour, one I would follow till the end of my days, but he was no better than the fucking Targaryens!"

The room fell silent. For a long, tense moment, no one knew what to say. The High Sparrow was no doubt savouring his moment of triumph, while Visenya fumed. Someone had betrayed her family, and now, they had delivered what was meant to be the final nail in her coffin.

"The Faith is satisfied there is sufficient evidence to bring a formal trial for Queen Visenya. Take her into custody."

One of the Sparrows advanced on her. The Kingsguard started to draw their swords, but Visenya halted them with a gesture. The Sparrow gripped her by the arm and roughly drew her to her feet as she drew a knife from within the sleeve of her gown and drove it into the bald man's neck. His eyes widened in surprise, and Visenya sneered as she wrenched the knife free. Blood gushed from his neck, pouring like a fountain as it covered her silver gown.

The Sparrow collapsed onto the floor, pitiful, gurgling breaths the only noise he could make. The High Sparrow and his other fanatics looked equally as shocked.

In that moment, the Kingsguard struck.

Ser Harras ducked as Ser Eustace drew a dagger and stabbed a Sparrow in the eye. The Ironborn, having drawn his Valyrian steel sword, rose back to his feet as he drove it into another Sparrow's chest. Ser Balon drew his Morningstar and smashed a Sparrow in the head with it, splattering the man's brains across the wall.

As this was happening, the middle Septa of the trio drew twin daggers and stabbed the other two in the throats. As the corpses dropped, Tyene Sand drew back her hood to reveal her beautiful, Dornish features.

Ser Bronn drew his knife and slashed the throat of another Sparrow. Visenya, still covered in blood, hissed "Take him!"

The knight nodded, slashing and weaving his way to the Goldcloak. He knocked the man's sword out of his hand and roughly shoved him towards Visenya. The remaining Sparrows converged around the High Sparrow, shielding him, while the Kingsguard and Tyene did the same with Visenya. The two of them exchanged venomous stares, evenly matched by all accounts. "Your Grace, we must leave. Now!" Ser Balon urged.

"I could not agree more." With a final glare at the High Sparrow, she turned around and walked back the way they had come. The Kingsguard made sure to stay in front of her, while Ser Bronn and their prisoner stayed one step behind. When they approached the main chamber, Visenya told her bodyguards "Turn left into this corridor."

"Your Grace?" Ser Harras asked.

"Do it!" They turned left, into a smaller corridor that served as housing for Septons. Visenya counted the number of seven-pointed stars carved into the walls. When she reached seven, she said "Stop. Here!"

She began to run her hands along the star, while the others nervously kept watch.

"If you don't mind, Your Grace, what the fuck are we doing here?" Ser Bronn whispered.

"My ancestor, Baelor, built this Sept. After he died, his uncle Viserys became king. Viserys was nowhere near as pious as his nephew, and he had several secret passageways built into the Sept. My husband memorized the layout of them all."

"By 'husband', you mean your brother, right?"

Visenya glared at the man. "Say that once more, and I will have you castrated and given to the Sparrows." He closed his mouth. "Smart." She returned her attention to the star, pressing the top right point and the top left point. She then gestured to the Kingsguard, who braced themselves and pushed in a door-sized portion of the wall next to it. Visenya looked at the captive Goldcloak, her fingers fiddling with the handle of her knife. "You will tell me who sent you. And if you are lucky, I will only have you killed."

They then ducked into the opening, sealing it behind them.

* * *

 **Hello, lovely readers!**

 **I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I had written nearly 2,000 words (all of Drakon's portions) when I transferred all of my files to my new laptop (goodbye slow, old laptop, you will be missed). Unfortunately, I somehow lost all my progress on this chapter in the move, and I had already wiped everything clean in my old laptop. That was really tough, and I didn't try to recreate it until about two weeks later, hence the delay.**

 **Anyways, I hope you enjoy this latest segment of the story. I'd love to hear feedback, so please review/favourite!**

 **BigWilly526: It was a gut reaction on his part. He was already frustrated with the situation (particularly on the possibility that a war with Jon would take Sansa from him in one form or another). I hope I addressed that point properly in Edric's portion here.**

 **TheOnlyKing: Agreed, a war between them would be wasteful. But, since this is Game of Thrones, wasteful/miserable things happen all the time. As for Edric being 'shown the light' in terms of the White Walkers/Wights…we'll just have to see how that plays out.**

 **Guest: At this point, it's a fairly even toss-up. Jon has slightly more numbers, but the margin is small enough that anything can happen. It's all about how both of them use their available troops.**

 **Lord Pyrus: Wow, thanks! Game of Thrones is already so politic-heavy, and a LOT of this story's intrigue/politics are of my own conception, so thanks for letting me know that I can articulate that part well.**

 **nanold: I think you meant Edric. And yes, he and Edwyn do have that problem. They are trying to live up to their father's image, and those are VERY large boots to fill. At the end of the day, they're just teenagers who were suddenly made two of the most powerful lords in Westeros. They're trying their best, and they listen to the people around them for advice. Some of it is good, and some of it not so much. I'm glad you like the Drakon/Dany arc. Right now, all the Dragons are meandering around Essos, as all five of them are free of their parent's/owner's control. They're in primal mode, looking for food and ranging across the land. They'll come back eventually.**

 **Lord Precision: That's a great question! I always had Christina Hendricks in my head for Jocelyn. Also, I envision Maester Colemon as Richard E. Grant, and I like to think of Jamie Alexander and Tom Hiddleston portraying Saernys and Gaeryn Darklyte.**

 **Guest: That would be awesome. I can't promise that (inevitable) confrontation will play out like that, but I love the idea.**

 **Guest: Here you go! I do the best I can, but the reality is that this story is a pastime for me, as I'm focusing most of my writing efforts on my novel (almost finished that first draft!). I'll try to get new chapters out as soon as I can.**


	31. Dragons and Horses

_**The Eyrie…**_

Jayne hummed a song to Aegor as he fed from her breast. Her son's eyes were closed, content. He was growing stronger with each day. No one else seemed to notice, not even Andar, but she knew. Her child had fought for survival since his birth weeks ago, coming into the world no larger than a goose egg.

She had named him Aegor after her ancestor's closest friend and half-brother, Aegor Rivers. Bittersteel, as they had called him, was a great warrior who had ensured House Blackfyre's survival after Daemon I had fallen in battle. Jayne hoped that strength would be channeled into her son so he might live to experience such fame. For now, though, she smiled as he fed. He was loved and cared for, just as her own mother did for her as a child.

The door to her chambers opened, and Adrya entered. "How are you feeling, m'lady?"

"I am well," Jayne replied, smiling at her handmaiden.

Adrya approached, then leaned over and kissed her on the lips. "The trial's beginning, soon."

Jayne's smile disappeared. Yes, the trial. Osfryd Kettleblack had been caught sneaking into Lord Yohn's chambers. He thought he was finishing the assassination attempt, but instead had been caught like a fly in a spider's web. Even if he had not been the one to poison her father-in-law, he was at the least culpable in the conspiracy against her and her husband's family.

Aegor soon finished feeding, and Jayne gave him to Adrya. The babe yawned, stretching his tiny little arms and legs as he was set down in his crib.

"Would you help me get dressed?" she asked her handmaiden.

"Certainly, m'lady."

The guards respectfully turned to face the walls as Jayne disrobed. Adrya helped her slip into a formal dress. Once she appeared every bit the noble lady, Jayne kissed her son on the forehead as he slept, then departed with Adrya and Carellen Stokeworth. The three women made their way through the Eyrie, passing by the increased number of guards along the way. As they neared the High Hall, they came across several nobles and their retinues. All of them bowed to Jayne, expressing their sorrows for the death of Lord Yohn.

Despite not knowing the man that long, Jayne felt a keen bite of sorrow. He had been a good man who treated her well. His murder was forever burned into her memory; most of all, she remembered the empty stare in his eyes, how dim they appeared amidst the paleness of his skin and the scarlet of his bloody face.

Ascending the ramp, Jayne came to stand beside the Weirwood throne. Once all the nobles and guards were assembled, Andar walked over to the throne. Jayne gave him a reassuring smile, and he returned it before sitting down.

He gestured to a guard standing by a side hall, and the man left, returning moments later with another guard. They held Osfryd Kettleblack by the arms, forcing him through the crowd until he stood before the Moon Door. He was shackled by his wrists, a nasty scowl on his face. The middle Kettleblack child glared at the gathered nobles, his gaze eventually settling on Jayne.

She returned his glare with an expression of pure steel. She would not be cowed by the arrogant knight.

His father, Oswell Kettleblack, stood in attendance, a grim expression etched on his face. Whether he was involved in his son's plot or not, Jayne could not afford any chances when it came to the safety of her family. She had taken certain precautions to that end.

"Ser Osfryd Kettleblack," Andar said, projecting a voice of authority and power. "You stand accused of the murder of my father, Yohn Royce, Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. The sentence for such a crime is death. What do you have to say?"

"That I hold you in nothing but contempt," Osfryd growled. "Your father never deserved the Vale, and neither do you or that Blackfyre cunt."

One of the guards holding him promptly landed a savage punch to his gut, eliciting a strained grunt. Osfryd was kept on his feet by the iron grip of the guards.

"If you insult my wife again, Ser, I shall have you gelded before I throw you through the Moon Door myself," Andar said. His voice was quiet, but his tone was as sharp as Valyrian Steel. "Now, let the trial commence—"

"Fuck you!" Osfryd barked. "I will not stand idle while the Royces and their Blackfyre masters pass judgement on me. The gods are with me, and they will see my efforts as just. I demand Trial by Combat!"

The nobles murmured at the surprising turn of events, but Jayne had been expecting the move. The man was predictable that way.

Andar leaned forward in his throne. "You have that right. I assume you wish to fight for yourself?"

"And here I thought you had no intelligence."

Jayne noticed her husband tense at the knight's words. He was a warrior, through and through, and his sensibilities would require him to answer any slights against his honour. She could not risk him dying in a foolish display of martial pride.

"Very well," she said. "A skilled warrior should be called to face someone of your talents, Ser Osfryd. Therefore, House Royce names Ser Osmund Kettleblack as our champion."

Everyone in attendance gasped, and all eyes turned to her.

Osfryd merely gaped, and Jayne allowed herself a slight smirk at stupefying him so. His brother, Osmund, stepped into view, looking equally shocked. "M-my lady, do you seriously expect me to—"

"Your brother stands accused of a capital crime, Ser," Jayne interrupted. "Murder of one's liege lord warrants the harshest punishment. If you wish to prove that the rest of your family is innocent, then you are required to do so in the eyes of gods and men." The knight was understandably hesitant, not moving from where he stood. Knowing he needed more 'encouragement', Jayne nodded to a trio of guards standing at the rear of the crowd. One of them drew a knife and held it to the throat of Oswell Kettleblack, forcing the man to his knees as the other two held him by the arms.

"If you refuse to fight, then as the head of your House, your father will be held accountable for any crimes you or your brothers have committed," Andar warned.

Osmund glanced between his brother and father, utterly distraught. If he agreed to fight, then one of the two brothers would die, and if he refused, then his father would be executed. Either way, the Kettleblack family would be neutralized as a threat. Jayne could not afford to take any chances; not knowing exactly how many of the Kettleblacks were involved, she had opted to manoeuvre most of them to their deaths.

Groaning, Osmund said "May the Father forgive me. I'll fight."

More surprised murmurs from the crowd.

"Give Osfryd his sword," Jayne told Carellen Stokeworth. Her Sworn Shield nodded, then made her way down to the main level of the hall. Osfryd was unshackled, and Carellen handed him his sword. He took it with a growl.

The crowd parted, and when Andar gave the signal, the brothers drew their swords.

The fight was drawn out, as neither wished to fight the other. Jayne kept her eyes fixed on them, ready to have the guards intervene and kill them if both surrendered. That proved to not be necessary, as they kept fighting. Osfryd was, by all accounts, the better fighter, but he held back.

Osmund locked swords with his brother, then shoved him back.

Osfryd crashed into Carellen, knocking several people over. They got back to their feet, and just as Osfryd took a step forward, he grunted. The man stumbled, then collapsed onto the floor, a black-handled dagger sticking out of his back.

"He's been stabbed!" a noblewoman cried, eliciting gasps and cries of astonishment.

A knight in the crowd said "I recognize that knife. It belongs to Osney Kettleblack! His father gave it to him on his last Nameday!"

Osmund tried to rush to his brother's side, but Carellen held him back.

"Seize him!" Andar bellowed, pointing to Osney Kettleblack. The youngest of the three brothers tried to flee, but he was quickly caught and restrained. Andar stood, fists clenched. His anger would only triple if he learned that Jayne had had Malcom take that knife from Osney's chambers and sneak it to Carellen.

"Perhaps he wanted to kill Osfryd to prevent him from confessing," Jayne said, touching her husband's arm.

"Throw Osney and his father in Sky Cells!" Andar ordered. "We will soon uncover the extent of your family's treachery, Oswell."

Oswell shouted in agony as he and his youngest son were dragged away, leaving Osmund and the gathered crowd to process the shocking twist.

Osfryd's body was dumped through the Moon Door.

* * *

 _ **The Reach…**_

It had taken two days to marshal a force from the Stormlands. Most of their number were still in Essos with Samwell, leaving only 2,000 fighting men. Edwyn gave the order to march on the eve of the third day; the Stormlanders and the force of Reachmen they had brought would have to be enough. Whomever was not assembled would be left behind.

Edwyn and Randyll Tarly drove the men hard. The Lord of Horn Hill lived up to his reputation, having any stragglers flogged to improve marching speed. The young Blackfyre, on the other hand, was eager to prove himself after his captivity. Memories of weeks spent in the dungeons of Meereen were still far too fresh in his mind.

He could never hope to have the respect of the Reach if he allowed invaders to trample over it. Edwyn's father would not hesitate to crush his enemies, and he needed to do the same.

Edwyn and Randyll led the men to travel from King's Landing to the Reach in three days.

Randyll had sent word to his son to gather an army and meet them. They did so on the Roseroad. Dickon rode at the head of the host he had gathered. Edwyn noted the resemblance between him and his father; the heir to Horn Hill was a few years older than he was, tall and strong like any lord would hope for his successor.

"Father, my lord," Dickon greeted with a nod.

"Well done, my son," Randyll said, noting the modest size of his son's host. "We now have enough manpower to drive out these rebels."

"Where are they now?" Edwyn asked.

Dickon licked his lips, then replied "They started by attacking the outlying villages, then took Old Oak. We just received word that they're attacking Goldengrove."

Randyll grumbled. "They're likely securing their flank before they make a move against Highgarden. Between the army here and the Ironborn at the Shield Islands, our enemy is throwing a net around the heart of our land."

"Then it's up to us to cut that net," Edwyn said, gripping his horse's reins tight.

"Exactly. Come, we mustn't waste any time!"

Edwyn, Randyll, and Dickon rode at the rear as their army marched.

When they eventually came within sight of Goldengrove, they saw that it was too late.

The main gate was somehow…gone, with only its edges hanging by their hinges. Red-armoured Westerland soldiers were pouring into the breach. Goldengrove was not a large keep, and what defenders it had were not enough to repel a successful assault. At this point, all Edwyn could accomplish was to re-take it before the enemy became too entrenched.

"My lord!" Dickon said, drawing his sword.

Edwyn saw it, too; infantry moving towards them. Even from this distance, he could tell they were only lightly armoured, bearing only spears and swords. "We must have caught them by surprise if they send these rabble against us."

"Perhaps," Randyll said. "Archers, ready!" At the rear line, bows were unslung and readied. "Knock!" Arrows were drawn, held against bowstrings. "Draw!" Bows were aimed towards the sky. "Loose!" Arrows were flung from tightened bowstrings, sailing upwards before falling back down towards the ground. Like a sharpened hailstorm from the seventh hell, the volley struck the enemy infantry, claiming many lives and injuring countless others. "Knock! Draw! Loose!" Randyll bellowed. The archers fired a second volley, striking more targets. "Pikes, advance!"

The men in the front lines lowered their pikes and held their shields, moving forward at a steady, clipped pace. The enemy infantry approached, closer and closer, until they finally charged en masse towards them.

Randyll scoffed. "Absolutely no discipline. Disgusting."

"Our pikemen will make short work of them," Dickon said.

Edwyn agreed, but he said nothing. Something felt off; a cold feeling of uncertainty gripped his heart, but he could not identify its source. The feeling was vindicated a moment later when their right and left flanks sounded horns. On both sides of their army, large cavalry forces were encircling them, their horses' hooves beating like thunderclouds.

"The charge was a distraction!" Edwyn growled, drawing his sword. "They wanted us to commit ourselves so they could strike from the rear. Dickon, take the right flank and secure it! Randyll, keep to the centre! I'll take our cavalry and secure the left flank."

Both men nodded, moving to carry out his commands. Edwyn called several units of cavalry to him, then sounded the charge. They rode out to meet one of the enemy cavalry forces; the young Blackfyre figured that they were more or less even. He had to succeed here, because his lines would crumble otherwise.

The two cavalry forces smashed into each other, and everything became chaos.

A rider beside Edwyn crashed into an enemy; both men were thrown from their mounts by the impact. There was a slight opening before him, and he took it, charging through as he slashed and hacked at enemy soldiers. Edwyn cut one in the throat, then stabbed another's horse in the eye, causing the animal to thrash in agony, throwing its rider onto the ground. He screamed as horses from both sides trampled him.

Amid the din of battle, the agonized wails of the dying, the clash of steel, and the screams of the horses, Edwyn heard someone whistling. With hot blood spattered over his face, he threw his gaze around in an effort to locate the source.

There it was again!

Edwyn turned his horse around just in time to see an enemy rider rushing towards him. The man was tall, almost impossibly so, and garbed in blue armour with a black flame on the chest piece. Whomever he was, he wielded a Valyrian Steel sword. Sneering, Edwyn brought up his own blade, blocking the attack.

He wasted no time counter-attacking, shoving his opponent's sword back before stabbing at his throat. The blue-armoured man dodged, lunging with his own sword. They fought back and forth, matching steel against Valyrian Steel. Edwyn suspected he was fighting one of the Darklytes, the commander of this siege. He was certainly a talented swordsman, and Edwyn fought with everything he had just to be the man's equal.

Just as he felt himself tiring from the duel, Edwyn punched the Darklyte in the helmet, his gauntlet giving the blow enough power. It stunned the tall man for a moment, enough for one of the Reachmen riders to ride up and tackle him to the ground.

Edwyn dismounted, the rush of battle sustaining him despite the fatigue he felt in his bones. The rider tried to stab the Darklyte man, but the latter gripped the former by the neck with his legs, throwing him onto his back. The Darklyte then grabbed their Valyrian Steel sword and slit the rider's throat with it.

Edwyn smashed his armoured knee into his opponent's covered face, knocking him onto his back. He then straddled him and ripped the blue helmet off.

A woman's face greeted him.

Her rough, tanned skin was glistening with sweat, her short-cropped brown hair clung to her forehead, and her bright violet eyes stared up at him. "So," she said, panting from exertion, "you're one of Drakon Blackfyre's sons. You don't look like you're Blood of the Dragon."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Edwyn countered, holding the tip of his sword to her throat.

"Yes. Men often underestimate women in this country."

Edwyn chanced a look at the rest of the battle, and was delighted to see the enemy infantry fleeing in a rout. "Your pathetic little army is broken. So much for the House of Darklyte. It seems only the Blackfyres are destined for—"

Edwyn grunted as his left leg exploded in pain. His vision flashed, and he was distracted enough to suddenly find himself on his back. Breathing through clenched teeth, he groped around his leg. His hands found a small dagger buried to the hilt in his thigh.

"It seems you and the rest of your family are destined to follow in your forefathers' footsteps," she said, having gotten to her feet. "I want you to know that I do not reserve hatred for you. You and your father brought stability to this country, and you shall be remembered for it. But now it is time for a new family to claim the Iron Throne." She brandished her Valyrian Steel sword. "May you find peace with the gods, Edwyn Blackfyre."

She raised her arm, then faltered, looking at something else. Edwyn was in too much pain to see what it was.

"Well, it appears as if you have a little more time to live. Not that it will make much difference. Valar Morghulis."

With a flourishing, exaggerated bow, she was gone, riding away on her horse.

Edwyn laid on the blood-stained earth, clutching his leg as tendrils of pain snaked through his body. He did not realize at first that Dickon Tarly was at his side, or that he was hoisted to his feet, arm held around the young man's shoulders.

"It will be alright, my lord," Dickon assured him.

"Seven take you if you lie," Edwyn said, grunting. His leg felt strange, like cold pain spreading like a spider's web. And yet it also seemed to burn through his veins. The combination made it almost impossible to stand without aid.

Randyll Tarly walked over to them, his armour stained with blood and a characteristically grim expression on his face. "My lord, there is something wrong about these men we fought. None of them are properly armoured. They don't look like soldiers, and yet they were thrown at us like Dothraki screamers."

"My lords," a soldier said, pointing to one of the enemy corpses. "I recognize this man. My sister's family would trade with him in the markets at Ashford. He and his son are farmers."

The realization struck Edwyn like a boulder from a trebuchet. "They took farmers from the villages they raided and threw them at us for a distraction. We killed our own people. The Darklytes had us do their dirty work for them."

A man on horseback rode up to them. "My lord! My lord!"

"What is it?" Randyll demanded.

"We've just received word. While we were engaged here, the enemy attacked and seized Horn Hill."

Randyll and his son shared shocked expressions. "Mother, Talla!" Dickon exclaimed.

As Edwyn surrendered to the siren call of unconsciousness, he knew the war for the Reach was just beginning.

* * *

 _ **Vaes Dothrak…**_

"Vaes Dothrak," Drakon Blackfyre said. "Not as grand as Meereen or Braavos, but still impressive."

Daenerys gazed up at the massive horse statues that reared over the pass leading to the city. The horde marched below them, a great river of people and their mounts and families. It had been years since she had been to the Dothraki capital. Daenerys could remember the taste of the stallion heart in her mouth, the blood that ran down her chin and fingers. She remembered her husband staring with approval as she kept going, holding his gaze the entire time, all while the Dosh Khaleen were chanting.

That was a lifetime ago. Daenerys had been a girl, foolish enough to believe that she had a happy future, in which her husband would lead an army to reclaim her family's throne. She had been an idiot; the days that followed had shown her just how cruel the world could be.

A grunt drew Daenerys' attention, and she turned on her saddle enough to look at Drakon Blackfyre. His hands were bound, lashed to her horse's saddle. The scion of House Blackfyre was barely recognizable. His body was covered in dark bruises, his skin was dry and covered in dirt, and his eye was so swollen as to prevent any vision. The once-mighty usurper was clinging to life by a single thread, and yet he endured.

Despite herself, Daenerys was impressed by his fortitude. Most men would have died of their injuries far sooner than now. Drakon was nothing if not hard to kill.

She was also reminded of her late husband, Drogo. Like him, Drakon was tall, muscular, and bearded. The comparison leapt unbidden into her mind, and she mentally scolded herself. This man was her enemy, a usurper of her rightful throne who had laid siege to her capital and murdered hundreds of her people.

They continued to ride, and Daenerys thought of their conversations. Drakon had told her of Rhaegar, who he was and how he lived. Even though he was her enemy, Drakon Blackfyre was a link to her past, and like it or not, they both had Targaryen blood in their veins.

"I never thought I would see this place again," Daenerys said, gazing out at the city that awaited them. 'City' was a generous term, as it was nowhere near as cosmopolitan as other places in Essos and Westeros. But it was still home to thousands, and judging by the number of tents erected all around the buildings, that number was magnified many times over. The Khals must have come to meet with each other.

"I only saw it from a distance when I lived in this part of the world," Drakon said. "As you know, merchants are the only foreigners allowed."

"Shut up!" a rider barked in Dothraki, kicking Drakon in the back.

The Blackfyre king grunted, stumbling. He walked the rest of the way to the city hunched, unable to straighten his back.

Daenerys saw Khal Moro with two of his Bloodriders waiting for her by the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. "Welcome home, Khaleesi," Moro greeted in Dothraki. He nodded to one of his Bloodriders, who took the rope tied to Drakon's bonds and led him elsewhere.

Drakon spared her a final glance before he was pulled out of view.

Moro rode off, and Daenerys was led into the temple. Inside, an old woman tended to a fire. Other women stood in the open space, their ages ranging from middle-aged to barely adolescent. These were the Dosh Khaleen, widows of fallen Khals. They were destined to live inside the temple walls forever, serving as advisors and spiritual guides to the Dothraki.

That fate was not for Daenerys. Not if she had any say in the matter.

She was brought before the old woman, who told the two Bloodriders "Go." They bowed and walked outside without saying a word. The old woman regarded Daenerys for a moment, then nodded to the other women. She suddenly found hands grabbing her all over, tearing at her dirtied dress.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Take your hands off me! I'll have your heads."

The dress came off, now nothing more than pieces of cloth. Next, her necklace and rings were removed. One of the Dosh Khaleen held out a plain brown garment. Daenerys took it, holding it against herself to preserve at least some modesty. She put it on, glaring at the old woman the entire time.

"You have made a mistake. One you will regret. I am the wife of the Great Khal."

"We know who you are," the old woman said, sounding disinterested in the whole affair. "I remember you eating the stallion's heart." She lit a fourth fire. "Why didn't you come to us after Khal Drogo died?"

"Because I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Breaker of Chains, the Queen of Meereen and the Mother of Dragons." The words were so familiar to her that saying them was as simple as breathing; she was all those things, a rightful queen who would one day reclaim all that her family lost. "My place is not here with you."

"You were the wife of the Great Khal. You thought he would conquer the world with you at his side. He didn't. I was the wife of the Great Khal. Khal Savo. I thought he would conquer the world with me at his side. You're young. We were all young once. But we all understand the way things are. You will learn as well, if you are fortunate enough to stay with us."

"Where else would I go?" Daenerys asked. "Every Khaleesi becomes Dosh Khaleen."

"Yes. Immediately after the death of their Khal. But you went out into the world. That is forbidden. All the Khalasars have returned for the Khalar Vezhven. They will decide which cities will be sacked and which tribes will be enslaved. And now they must decide what to do with Khal Drogo's silver-haired widow. With luck, your place will be here with us, Mother of Dragons. It is the best you can hope for, now."

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

"I know you are involved, Oswell," Jayne said. She stood behind Oswell, who knelt at spearpoint at the back of a Sky Cell.

The wind whipped at the exposed cell, casting a chill that bit the skin of Jayne's arms and neck. Still, she endured it for the sake of the information she was trying to obtain. Osney Kettleblack stood at the very edge of the Sky Cell, leaning out into the cold open. His hands were shackled, connected to a chain which two guards held firm.

Jayne had only to give a gesture, and Osney would fall to his death.

"I swear, my lady, I have no knowledge of any plot!" Oswell said. He had claimed as much for several minutes now. Obviously, he needed more encouragement.

"Now I know that is a lie, Oswell. You and Osfryd were involved in a conspiracy to murder Lord Yohn, my husband, myself, and my infant child. Who else plotted against us?"

"By all the gods, I don't know!" the older man shouted, almost at the point of tears.

Jayne frowned. She nodded to the two guards, who let the chain holding Osney slip for half a moment, then gripped it tight again. The youngest Kettleblack child jerked forward, unable to speak as he blubbered out of pure terror. He now leaned at a sharp angle; if either of his feet slipped, he would fall over the edge.

Oswell gave a cry at the sight, attempting to stand. One of the guards standing over him prodded his neck with the point of a spear, not enough to draw blood but enough to make a point.

"Fate is such a fickle thing, Oswell," Jayne said, slowly circling him. "If the gods exist, then they seem to take pleasure from plucking the strings of our tapestries at a whim. If they do not, then we are the masters of our own destiny. You have two clear paths before you: either tell me what I want, in which case Osney will be spared, or continue to claim ignorance, and Osney will die." She paused for effect, making him sweat. "Do not think that will be the end of it if that is your choice; you have, after all, another son. How many do you want to die today?"

Oswell glared up at her with all the venom he could muster, but from his current position, it was a rather empty gesture.

She held his gaze, drawing out the agony of waiting. Jayne turned to look at the guards holding the chain, ready to give the order.

"Wait, stop!"

Jayne looked back at him.

Oswell breathed a heavy sigh. "He told us that only your family had to die, no one else. We wanted to take power without slaughtering the whole keep, like Tywin Lannister did to King's Landing."

"Who is 'we'?" Jayne asked. "Who else did you conspire with?"

"Osfryd," Oswell croaked, his eyes misty at the memory of his dead son. "He poisoned Lord Yohn. Lothor Brune and Harrold Hardyng were in on it, too."

Jayne flipped through the pages of her memory; those men were knights, at least somewhat well-regarded in the Vale. But none of them had the charisma or the cunning to lead such a circle of conspirators. "Who was your leader, Oswell?"

After a moment's pause, he replied "Lyn Corbray. He called us together, laid out the plan. The poison we used was bought with his gold."

Lyn Corbray. Jayne curled her lips in a sneer at the mention of the knight. The Captain of the Guard was arrogant, disrespectful, and now it seemed he was a traitor, as well. In a way, Jayne was glad that he was involved; it gave her the excuse she needed to rid herself of the man for good.

"You'll let us go, now?" Oswell asked. "I did what you asked."

"And so you did," Jayne said. She nodded to the guards holding the chain, and they yanked it back. Osney fell onto his back with a grunt, panting from the fear he had just experienced. To the guards standing over Oswell, she said "Throw him over the edge."

"What?" the older man cried in shock.

"You just incriminated yourself in a plot to murder your liege lord. The sentence for such a crime is death."

The spearmen gripped Oswell by the arms, led him to the edge, and hurled him over it.

"No! Father!" Osney cried, feebly reaching out as Oswell screamed into the abyss below. Jayne turned from the sight of the open wall, forcing herself to remain composed. This was necessary for the survival of her family; she would rather build a mountain of corpses than let any harm befall her child. She turned to leave, the four guards in tow, when Osney said "Wait! Aren't you going to release me?"

Jayne regarded him for a moment. He was the youngest of his brothers, and one might be inclined to believe him innocent of his father and brother's crimes. Oswell had only named himself and Osfryd, but that did not mean that the other two Kettleblack brothers were involved.

"No, I will not," Jayne replied. "I cannot risk setting you free if you were a part of the conspiracy."

"So you're just going to leave me here?"

"Yes. I will arrange for food and water to be brought to you. Whether you die of old age in this cell or leap from the edge to join your father is entirely up to you." She walked out of the Sky Cell and watched one of the guards lock the door. With a satisfied nod, Jayne left the dungeons behind. The _click_ of her heels on the stone floor echoed as she turned her thoughts to the future.

There were more traitors to punish.

* * *

 _ **Vaes Dothrak…**_

Samwell crouched on the top of the hill, casting his gaze on the city before him. Vaes Dothrak was perhaps the most formidable settlement in Essos, not because it had strong walls or vast wealth, but because it was home to tens of thousands of Dothraki riders. The horse lords' reputation alone was enough to ward off any thought of attack.

But Samwell had no choice.

"We need to get in there," he said, nodding to the city.

"What?" Ser Loras asked. "That is madness!"

Ser Prester, having finished sharpening his sword, sheathed the weapon and said "It'll be dark soon. That's the best time to move, when most of the screamers will be piss drunk."

"You cannot be serious!" Ser Loras said, looking at them with astonishment in his eyes. "You would risk all our lives on the slight chance that we can rescue King Drakon?"

"That is the strength of loyalty," Ser Prester said, shrugging.

"You can remain here, if you wish," Samwell told the Knight of the Flowers. "But we are going down there." He started shedding his armour, tossing the pieces next to his bedroll by the fire. Nymeria, who laid at the foot of his bedroll, looked at each piece as it hit the dirt, her tongue hanging in the evening dusk.

"Good idea," Ser Prester said, removing his Kingsguard armour.

Ser Loras furrowed his brow. "What is?"

Samwell, feeling a weight lifted without his plate armour, placed his Valyrian Steel greatsword, Brightroar, next to his armour, along with the daggers he kept sheathed on his wrist and ankle. "We can move a lot faster and quieter without armour. And since drawing a weapon within the city is forbidden, we will be leaving ours here."

"But without our weapons, how can we defend ourselves if we are discovered?"

Samwell held out a hand, and Nymeria got to her feet, walking over to him. He ran a hand over her head, scratching behind her ear.

Ser Loras closed his mouth.

"What is your decision, Ser?" Samwell asked. "Will you join us, or renege on your oath as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?" Nymeria emphasized his point by growling. This close, the noise resembled the low rumble of an oncoming thunderstorm while at sea.

Ser Loras made his decision.

Samwell found Vaes Dothrak to be surprisingly crowded. None of the structures had more than one level, and they were all stretched across the valley basin, but this close, the mud huts and clay buildings almost seemed crammed together. Ser Loras and Ser Prester kept watchful eyes on their surroundings, while Nymeria walked beside Samwell like some mythical beast dredged from the underworld to take vengeance on evildoers.

By now, most of the city was quiet, the Dothraki drinking themselves into a stupor while their Khals debated over which cities to attack and which villages to raid. Despite that, Samwell and his companions were prepared for anything.

They moved quickly, unburdened by armour. Nymeria's mere presence made several horses nervous, and the last thing they needed was terrified whinnies waking the Dothraki and ruining their chances to save the king.

They slipped through an alley, coming face to face with a group of the horse lords.

Some of them held bottles in their hands, and judging by their unsteady stance, they were quite drunk. But even a drunk man could call for help. Samwell, having held his hand on Nymeria's back this whole time, released his grip. The Direwolf lunged at the nearest Dothrakan, tackling him to the ground. She tore the man's throat out with her fangs, and Samwell rushed one of the other four.

The Dothrakan was thin, but toned. His movements were sloppy, but still quick. Samwell dodged a punch aimed at his head, then managed to slip his arm around the other man's neck. As his opponent struggled, Samwell gave a hard twist, snapping his neck.

Ser Loras and Ser Prester dealt with two more, knocking out their opponents by kicking them in the head and smashing their head against a wall, respectively.

The last Dothrakan decided to cut his losses and run, stumbling through the night.

Samwell gave a short whistle, trying to be quiet. Nymeria, her jaws still dripping blood, charged after the fleeing man. She reached him in no time, clamping her jaws on his leg. He fell to the ground with a pained cry, struggling uselessly as Nymeria dragged him back to the others. Samwell silenced him with a punch to the throat.

"We have to keep moving," he told the two knights. "They'll discover these bodies before long, and we need to be gone by the time that happens."

Fortunately, there were no more incidents along the way.

They skirted the edge of the large clearing in which the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen resided. Staying clear of the round structure, the trio finally sighted the king. He laid on the ground, watched over by two rather bored-looking Dothraki guards. Samwell gestured to Ser Loras and Ser Prester, who nodded and circled the streets until they were behind the guards.

Samwell and Nymeria walked out into the open, approaching the king. The Dothraki guards, alerted to his presence, drew their weapons. Before they had a chance to speak, however, Ser Loras and Ser Prester jumped them from behind, covering their mouths and snapping their necks.

They dragged the bodies behind one of the buildings, and Samwell attended to the king.

His Grace was unrecognizable. King Drakon was thinner than Samwell remembered, probably from weeks of malnourishment. His body was covered in bruises of differing shapes and colouration, indicating a prolonged period of injury. The king's face was bruised and mangled, with one eye swollen shut, a split lip, a swollen jaw that was likely dislocated, and numerous, deep gashes; if not for the silver hair, the king's wife and children would be unable to recognize him.

"Your Grace?" Samwell asked, gently shaking his liege's shoulder. "Your Grace?"

King Drakon mumbled. He burst awake a moment later, thrashing and swinging his bound fists. Samwell fought to keep a grip, holding him steady.

"Your Grace, it's me. Samwell Royce."

The king calmed, panting. He looked at Samwell with his one good eye, brow furrowed in confusion. "Samwell?"

"Yes. And I've brought some help," Samwell said, indicating the two knights.

"Your Grace," Ser Prester said, kneeling. Ser Loras did the same. "We've come to take you from this place."

"You have my sincerest thanks," the king said breathlessly. The weariness in his voice was profound. "All of you."

Nymeria tensed and growled at something, and Samwell heard voices from nearby. "Come. We must get you to safety." He and Ser Prester each held one of the king's arms on their shoulders, hoisting him up to his feet.

"No, we cannot leave yet. Daenerys…we must…"

They walked along the edge of the clearing, keeping alert for any more Dothraki. If they could just make it to the surroundings hills, they would have a chance. Coming to a small stream, they walked along the edge, following it towards the city limit.

They suddenly stopped as they came face to face with Daenerys Targaryen and three others.

One was a young Dothraki woman, while the other two were instantly familiar. Samwell recognized Ser Jorah Mormont and Daario Neharis. For a long moment, there was silence, no one making a move. Ser Prester dropped the king's right arm as he and Ser Loras started advancing, and Daenerys' men did the same. Nymeria…

"Stop!" King Drakon hissed. The two Kingsguard halted mid-step, simultaneously confused and prepared to attack at the slightest word. Ser Jorah and Daario Neharis did the same, looking wary for some sort of trick. King Drakon looked at the Targaryen girl and said "I'm tired of fighting you, Daenerys. Let there be peace between us."

She did not immediately respond. Samwell thought she would order her men to attack. If she did, he would have Nymeria charge Daario; Ser Jorah was a straightforward enemy, fighting like a knight, while the Sellsword was more unpredictable. He would have to be the first to die.

Eventually, Daenerys said "Is that really possible? After everything that's happened?"

"I have to believe that. And if I know you at all, I know you have a plan for dealing with the Khals. A queen as strong as you would never allow herself to be trapped in that temple for the rest of her life."

The Targaryen girl glanced at the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, and Samwell saw a distinct sneer on her face. "None of those Khals deserve their titles. I'm going to kill them all."

King Drakon chuckled, coughing a moment later. "I would expect nothing less. Let us aid you in this, Daenerys. Let us work towards building a better future together." She stared at the king, looking unsure. Samwell, still tense, prepared to give Nymeria the whistle which would spark her into action.

Daenerys made her decision.

* * *

The Khals were all seated at the far side of the temple, displeased expressions on their faces. They had most likely learned of the men Jorah, Daario, and Drakon Blackfyre's knights had killed.

The High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen, together with the younger Dosh Khaleen Daenerys had befriended, escorted Daenerys inside the temple. They brought her before the Khals and walked out, leaving the last Targaryen in the same room as the current leadership of the Dothraki people.

"Who cares about her?" one of them asked derisively. "She's a midget."

"I like her," another, portly Khal said, leering at her. "She's paler than milk."

"I'd like to know what a Khaleesi tastes like."

"Good. You can suck my dick."

They all chuckled at the remark. Daenerys was not amused.

"She belongs with the Dosh Khaleen," Khal Moro said, not laughing.

One of the Khals said "The Wise Masters of Yunkai want her. They're offering 10,000 horses in exchange. What's worth more: one pink little girl or 10,000 horses?"

"Fuck the Wise Masters in their perfumed asses," Moro said. "I'll take their horses for myself."

Daenerys chose her moment to make her intentions known. "Don't you want to know what I think?" she asked casually.

All eyes turned on her.

"You'd rather be sold into slavery?" Moro asked. "Or maybe you'd like to show Rhalko here what you taste like?"

Daenerys took one look at Rhalko. "No. I don't want either of those things."

"We don't care what you want. This is the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. You have no voice here, unless you are Dosh Khaleen. Which you are not, until we decide you are."

"I know where I am. I have been here before," Daenerys said, slowly walking around the central ring of the temple. She flashed back to years prior, to another life. "This is where the Dosh Khaleen pronounced my child the Stallion Who Mounts the World."

"And what happened?" Moro asked. "You trusted a sorceress, like a fool. Your baby is dead because of you. And so is Khal Drogo."

That was the wrong thing to say.

"This is where Drogo promised to take his Khalasar west to where the world ends. To ride the wooden horses across the Black Salt Sea as no Khal has done before. He promised to kill the men in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses. He swore to me before the Mother of Mountains." And yet, Drogo had not done those things. He had died, unable to move or speak from that witch's blood magic.

Drakon Blackfyre had done what she and Drogo set out to do. He had punished the men responsible for murdering her family and driving her from Westeros, burned their castles and vanquished their armies. Daenerys thought she was the only Blood of the Dragon left in the world, the only one who could have avenged her family's injustice. But she had been wrong on both counts.

"And you were dumb enough to believe him," Moro said.

"And here, now," Daenerys said, stepping onto the central dais. "What great matters do the Great Khals discuss? Which little villages you'll raid, how many girls you'll get to fuck, how many horses you'll demand in tribute." She spoke in as condescending a tone as she could muster, just as one would talk down to a child who had misbehaved. "You are all small men. None of you are fit to lead the Dothraki. But I am. So I will."

They all laughed, apparently not realizing their fate was already decided.

"All right. No Dosh Khaleen for you," Moro said, ever confident in his position. "Instead we'll take turns fucking you. And then we'll let our Bloodriders fuck you. And if there's anything left of you, we'll give our horses a turn. You crazy cunt. Did you really think we would serve you?"

Daenerys placed a hand on one of the braziers. Her skin did not burn; in fact, she felt nothing at all, which secured her plan's success.

"You're not going to serve. You're going to die."

She pushed the brazier onto the floor. Its contents spilled out, creating advancing like a wave. The Khals all stood and backed away, crying out in surprise and fear. When they tried to circle around the flames, Daenerys pushed the other brazier, creating a wall of fire that blocked their immediate passage. The Khals and their Bloodriders scattered, some already consumed by fire.

The flames spread to more and more of the temple. Several beams fell from the ceiling, crashing onto a fleeing Khal. The ceiling fell apart in pieces, raining down like heavenly wrath.

The remaining Khals neared the doors, which suddenly flung open. An almost bestial roar boomed from without as Drakon Blackfyre limped into the temple. The doors slammed shut behind him. The Blackfyre man searched the survivors, and when he found Khal Moro, he proceeded to tackle the Dothrakan to the ground, savagely beating him with his fists. Drakon visited vengeance for weeks of physical abuse on the Khal, breaking bones and knocking out teeth in equal measure.

The temple ceiling finally collapsed wholesale, burying them all according to the Targaryen words: Fire and Blood.

Daenerys felt her clothes burning away, becoming nothing but ash. She herself remained unharmed, true to the title of Unburnt. The flames surrounded her, dancing in their primal, deadly beauty as they consumed the rest of the bodies.

A moment later, Drakon Blackfyre stood, also unharmed by the fire. His hands were red from the blood of Moro, and while he still bore the injuries from being brutalized on a daily basis, it was readily apparent that his spirit had not waned in the slightest.

Daenerys walked over to him, looking up into his amber eye. They were both bare as the days they were born, unspoiled by the fire. "What happens now?" she asked him. "Are we still enemies?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't want that. And I don't think you want that, either."

She arched an eyebrow. "You presume much about me."

Drakon chuckled. "We both want the same thing, Daenerys. Peace and unity. After centuries of bloodshed and betrayal, the world deserves to be ruled by monarchs like us, who are strong enough to make the hard choices but also compassionate enough to care for commoner and noble alike."

Daenerys turned towards the empty doorway. Even through the roar of the fire, she could hear the confused cries of the Dothraki.

"Go to them," Drakon said. "They are your people."

"And what about Westeros?" she asked him.

"It is your home. It has always been your home. I will no longer bar your path. Whenever you choose to return, I will welcome the arrival of Rhaegar's true successor. Until then, farewell, Daenerys Stormborn."

He inclined his head, then limped towards an opening in the back of the temple, where his knights were waiting to take him to safety.

"Until then, Drakon Blackfyre," Daenerys said to herself. He gave her one last look before he disappeared into the night. The last Targaryen took a deep breath, then walked out the temple doorway. The time had finally come to take her rightful place with her people.

* * *

 **Hello, lovely readers!**

 **My apologies for the long delay in posting. Work on my novel really took off, and time just seemed to fly by. I actually wrote most of this chapter in November, but I just haven't been able to find the motivation to finish it off until now. Since I'm not returning to work until April, I decided to take a break from editing my novel to work on my fanfics for a few weeks.**

 **krasni: Thanks! As for Rhaegar not telling Drakon about Jon, I have some thoughts. Based on all the evidence, Rhaegar was playing everything very close to the chest with Lyanna, telling no one of his plans. Even if Drakon did suspect something coming of Rhaegar running off with Lyanna, he doesn't have definitive proof, as everyone who might have known something are all dead now. I like to think that Rhaegar would have told Drakon after Robert's Rebellion was put down, maybe even trusting him to help raise/train the boy, but that's all speculation.**

 **NightSkyWolf: Sorry I couldn't upload sooner! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **TheOnlyKing: Absolutely. As for them returning to Westeros together, that probably won't happen. Dany has shit to take care of in Meereen, as well as marshalling all her forces, and Drakon has to, as you say, get back soon to do major damage control.**

 **Guest: That issue will be the cause of some awkward conversations.**

 **Guest: True. Jon and Edric both want to end things as quickly as they can, but I see their war as the result of intense, external pressure from their allies as well as an inability to have someone more intelligent, like Drakon or Jayne, act as a moderator between them. Poor communication, as they say, kills.**

 **TheIronEmperor: Thanks! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Also, this is Game of Thrones, where according to Papa George, no one is completely innocent. Drakon had more time to learn from the people he hated than the people he loved. He ultimately used their own methods to defeat them, but he fully recognizes that he's no better than them. The best he can do is to ensure stability in the realm and have his children grow up to become better people than he ever was.**

 **Guest: That is a valid point. In this kind of setting, the heroes have to be as bloodthirsty as the villains, or they'll end up like poor Ned.**

 **Guest: I'm not a fan of Daario either; I think he's far too arrogant.**

 **Guest: Possibly. House Halfhand is only using the Freys' castle because it was gifted to them by the king. All the people involved in the Red Wedding are now dead, so Arya shouldn't have any similar grudges against Drakon or his people. Now about Rickon being held there…that's another issue.**

 **Guest: Yeah, that scenario is a perfect setup for awkward family conversations.**

 **Windstarfire: Here's one now! I always try to get these done as soon as I can, but the reality is I have more than one project on the go at any given time.**

 **Guest: I guess it's more pronounced, since my chapters aren't nearly as long as those in the books, but this is a universe with a large cast, so inevitably there's going to be several POV changes.**


	32. The Dogs of War

_**Winterfell…**_

"Why won't you do it?"

"Because 'fuck you!', that's why," Smalljon Umber replied.

Edric sighed. Arguing with the large man was like smashing his head against a stone wall; the headache certainly made him feel that way.

"My family has never abandoned our keep, not ever!" Smalljon said. "We've held the line against the fucking Wildlings for fucking centuries. I grew up in that castle, and there's no way in all seven hells you'll convince me to let Jon Snow and his goat-fucking army have it for themselves."

Edric stared up at the Umber, eye to eyes. "It's like you said: the Wildlings have no experience performing as an actual army. Once we face them on our terms, on a flat plain, we'll eliminate them as threats and cut Jon Snow's army in half."

"So let's ride out now and face them in the open!" Smalljon barked. "Why the fuck should I have to abandon my ancestral keep to them when we can halt their advance before they even leave the Gift?"

"Our forces are too spread out," Edric said, gesturing to the map of the North.

Black Wolf markers were placed over Winterfell, Last Hearth, Karhold, Cerwyn, and Deepwood Motte.

White Wolf markers were placed over Castle Black, Bear Island, The Gift, and White Harbor.

Edric added "By the time we marshalled all our troops and marched north, they'd be at your doorstep already, or even halfway to Winterfell. We need to face them at a time and place of our choosing."

"Is that why you're digging those trenches out there?" Smalljon asked, jerking his head to indicate the window.

Edric looked outside. In the midst of the cold, grey evening, hundreds of soldiers and workers were digging pits a dozen feet long and six feet wide. The pits were key to his plan for a decisive battle, so the need for secrecy was paramount. Katryna had organized parties of scouts and hunters to patrol the edge of the Wolfswood and farther up the Kingsroad so as to keep away prying eyes.

Re-focusing his attention, Edric said "The Manderlys have yet to assemble all their forces, which gives us a chance to cut off Jon Snow's reinforcements by laying siege to White Harbor. I'll have the Cerwyns and the Karstarks encircle the city, bottling up the Manderlys to prevent them from joining Jon Snow."

Smalljon snorted. "Clearly you don't know how to siege, boy. White Harbor is a port city; they'd get supplies and reinforcements from the water, or sail most of their troops north."

"That doesn't matter. All we need to do is keep them from marching on Winterfell. Jon Snow doesn't want this war to last any longer than it has to, and neither do I; he'll take any chance he can get to end it, and he does that by taking Winterfell. We use that to lure him and the Wildlings here and spring the trap." He picked up one of the White Wolf map markers. "The Wildlings will be dealt with, Jon Snow will be in chains, and from there we convince the rest of the North to fall in line. Without the White Wolf to rally behind, their little rebellion will be stillborn."

Smalljon regarded the map of the North with a critical eye. Apart from Harald Karstark, the Lord of Last Hearth had the most military experience of Edric's lords. He'd been fighting his whole life, with the War of Five Kings only his most recent conflict.

This plan was Edric's best chance for winning the war. If he devoted everything he had to an all-out assault, there was a chance he might lose, and thousands would pointlessly die. This way, the civil war would end before it had a chance to destroy the North.

Finally, Smalljon asked "What part would my people play in this?"

Edric let out a brief, relieved sigh, then explained "You and your people move south, along the Kingsroad, with all the food and livestock you can take. The day after you leave here, I'll march north along the road with Whitehill reinforcements. We'll meet you here, where the road meets the Last River. While your Smallfolk take the supplies and livestock to Winterfell, we set fire to the forest on the river's north shore. That should buy us enough time to march south and reach Winterfell. The Glovers are force-marching here as we speak, while the Cerwyns and Karstarks will join us after laying siege to White Harbor. Between all of us, we should have enough to overcome the Wildlings."

After a moment, Smalljon chuckled. "You're not totally useless after all, are you One-Eye?"

Edric resisted the urge to touch his left eye. "What is your decision?"

"We'll try it your way. As long as you give your word that we kill those fucking Wildlings once and for all." He held out his arm, and Edric clasped it.

Smalljon and his retinue of guards departed for Last Hearth the next day. The day after that, Edric was preparing to leave, along with Masyn Tanner and twenty of his household guard. The Whitehill men were assembled outside Winterfell, awaiting his command to march. When Ludd Whitehill had first joined Edric, the latter had been told that his forces numbered 500. In actuality, the fat, cantankerous lord had managed to assemble well over 1,000 mercenaries using gold from seized Forrester Ironwood in the wake of the Red Wedding.

He had been reluctant to turn his troops over, citing his desire to protect Highpoint and Ironrath, but Edric had overruled him.

His armour equipped and Wolf's Howl strapped to his waist, Edric mounted his horse. Winter was most definitely coming, as the biting chill nipped at every part of his body, even with everything he had on. Edric glanced at one of the upper windows of the keep. Sansa stood there, staring down at him. Beneath the furs and fabric, her belly grew with his unborn child. She had told him weeks ago, but then the troubles with Jon Snow had begun. They had not spoken to each other since.

"I want to do the right thing, Sansa, but most of the time I have no clue as to what the right thing is." The words were so clear in his mind that the conversation could have been yesterday.

"None of us do," she had said. "All we can do is act the best way we can, with no regrets."

"I swear to you that I will do my best to ensure that Jon lives, but war is never clean or without loss. The next few months will decide the fate of the North. And the fate of us."

With a sad expression on his face, Edric kicked his horse into action. He rode out the front gate of Winterfell, guards in tow, riding towards a war that would probably cost him the love of his life.

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

Rona strode through the catacombs of the Red Keep, a torch in one hand. The light illuminated the empty, ominous passageway, banishing the shadows around her.

Everything was falling apart; the capital had been under great tension for some time, but the queen's inquisition and subsequent violent escape from the Sept of Baelor had proven disastrous. Since the queen would not prove herself innocent of the charges of incest legally, her detractors had started rioting in the streets. Violence was now an everyday occurrence, and the City Watch was insufficiently maintaining order.

Coming to a fork in the path, Rona took the left. She always hated these pre-arranged meetings, each time desiring to extricate herself from them as soon as possible. But she came, every time. It was, after all, necessary.

After walking for what felt like forever, Rona arrived at the cellar, long-abandoned since the days of King Jaehaerys I. The rotting wooden shelves were empty, and the stone of the floor had eroded enough for small pools of water to collect in recesses. The air smelled dank and moldy, and Rona was sure she heard something scurrying nearby. Probably rats. With so much of the Red Keep's bowels forgotten and abandoned over the centuries, there might be thousands of them down here.

She shivered, pushing the thought from her mind.

One of the pools splashed as someone stepped in it, and Rona drew the dagger she kept in her sleeve, turning to face the other person.

"My, my…Nervous, are we?"

Rona sighed as Simon stepped into the torchlight, hands held open as he bore a sarcastic grin on his scarred, ugly face. "Next time you try to sneak up on me, I might just fail to restrain myself."

Simon chuckled. "That's right, I nearly forgot. You always prefer more…subtle methods, right? Information is your weapon. You'd rather try to slander someone than just killing them and be done with it."

"You don't get to criticize my methods," Rona spat. "If you hadn't involved the Sparrows, then we wouldn't be in this situation."

"You wanted the bitch gone, and spreading rumours was getting us nowhere." Simon paced along the edge of the cellar. "She's smarter than that Lannister cunt ever was. We were never going to accomplish anything since she had the loyalty of the Goldcloaks."

"Too many people have died over this!" Rona said. "All I wanted was for Visenya to be ousted and driven out of the capital. Now, Ser Hugo is dead, the city is in anarchy, and Visenya has the Sand Snakes prowling the streets as her personal assassins. I should never have come to you with this."

Simon gave her a predatory smile. "But you did, because everything can be solved with gold."

"Don't think I'm unaware of how you've been lining your pockets this whole time," Rona warned. "His Grace was pragmatic; he was content with letting you skim a few profits as long as you did your job."

"Now that the sister-fucker's dead, what harm is there in hoarding a little more?" Simon asked.

Rona sneered. She could barely stand to be in the same room as the Master of Coin, even at the best of times. In moments like this, he showed just how despicable he could be. "We need to solve this crisis before the rest of the country goes up in flames."

"In case you haven't noticed, the country's already up in flames. In times like this, it's best to look out for yourself. I've done well living like that."

"You can keep living like that," Rona said, glaring at him. "I'm going to ensure that my friend's legacy won't die with him."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the cellar the same way she came in. When Rona came to the fork, she turned and took the second path. It wound through the Red Keep's bowels before linking with a passage that would lead her to the Tower of the Hand. She always made it a point to never travel the same route twice; it made it more difficult for one's enemies to track.

After winding through darkened passageways, Rona finally arrived. She deposited her torch in the holder just behind the secret door. Upon entering the storeroom, she closed the door and walked out into the hall.

 _"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,"_ a voice sang from her left.

Rona stiffened, her eyes darting about. She briskly walked in the opposite direction, grasping the dagger in her sleeve. There was no need to run; perhaps it was some random, drunk guard passing the time with a song. She rounded a corner, and stopped as a spear imbedded itself in the wall mere inches from her face. When Rona looked for who had thrown it, her mild concern exploded into full alarm.

The Sand Snakes were ahead. Obara, the one who had thrown the spear, stood with a satisfied smirk, while Nymeria casually uncoiled the whip in her hands.

 _"The Dornishman's taken my life,"_ the voice continued singing.

Rona turned around and ran.

She didn't get far before half a dozen Goldcloaks approached from the opposite end of the hall, swords drawn. Behind them strode Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, the newly minted Lord Commander of the City Watch.

 _"But what does it matter, for all men must die,_

 _and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife._

 _I have, I've tasted the Dornishman's wife."_

With her dagger in one hand, Rona pulled back her hood with the other and drew one of the stilettos holding her bun in place. Before she could do anything more, however, she suddenly found the end of Nymeria's whip wrapped around her wrist. It yanked her back, and she fell to the floor. The Goldcloaks were on her in seconds, holding her arms as they brought her to her feet.

She tried resisting, but their grip was too tight.

Ser Bronn walked up to her, thumbs hooked in his belt. "You've been a naughty girl, lass. Someone wants to talk with you."

* * *

 _ **Horn Hill…**_

Saernys Darklyte grunted as the needle pierced her skin. She gripped the carved oak table tight, left arm raised high, breathing through her nose as she fought past the pain.

"You are such a child," Gae muttered. He sat beside her, eyes focused in concentration as he threaded the needle through the long gash on her underarm. Somehow, Edwyn Blackfyre had managed to inflict the wound before Saernys and the rest of the army detachment had fled. His father had obviously trained him well.

"Just hurry up, would you?" she said through gritted teeth. Her body was covered in scars from dozens of old injuries, but that did not mean that it hurt each time she was wounded.

"This requires precision and concentration," Gae replied.

One of the servants brought a pitcher of wine that Saernys had requested. "Thank the gods!" The girl started to pour it into a cup, but Saernys tore it from her hands and guzzled it. Some of the crimson liquid ran down her chin and mouth, but she barely noticed, handing the empty pitcher back.

"There," Gae said a minute later, once he had bitten the thread from the needle. "Now you can stop crying like an infant."

Saernys lowered her arm, then punched her brother in the shoulder. He chuckled, and she slid from the table onto her feet. "The only thing making this feel better is knowing that Edwyn Blackfyre's feeling a lot worse."

"Demon's Dance does have that effect," Gae agreed.

Saernys scanned the dining hall of Horn Hill. Randyll Tarly was infamously strict and harsh, running his castle, lands, and his own family in military fashion. He had even been so cold as to send his eldest son to the Wall for not being 'manly' enough. A ridiculous notion. He was also a notorious hunter, and the dining hall was surrounded by countless antlers and stuffed trophy heads.

"A bit macabre," she noted dryly.

Gae, having put his tools away, walked to the other side of the table. "No more than the Targaryens, and now the Blackfyres, hanging the skulls of Dragons in the Red Keep?"

"That's different," Saernys told him. "Dragons are power personified. They are ancient and mystical, the source of our family's authority. This? This is just…drab by comparison."

"Well, the castle is ours now. Feel free to have it redecorated."

Saernys smirked. "That's why I keep you around, dear brother."

They shared a chuckle.

She grabbed the rolled-up map and unfurled it, draping it across the table. "Do we know where Edwyn Blackfyre and his troops are now?"

"Here," Gae said, pointing to Highgarden. "They're encamped for now. They outnumber us by a not-insignificant margin; attacking them at such a fortified position would be unwise."

She nodded in agreement. "We'll have to strike at the outlying cities and towns to draw them out. It will be much easier to take Highgarden once their main army is defeated."

"And would you like to tell me this magical solution of yours? Does it involve Grumkins and Snarks?"

Saernys snorted. "No. It's subtler than that. I believe I have a way to…leverage the situation in our favour. But, even if we do succeed here in the Reach, we don't have the forces to take the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Euron Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet have proven themselves, but we are still short on allies."

Gae seemed to shiver at the mention of the one-eyed pirate lord.

"The rest of the country may be at war with itself now, but it won't remain that way forever. Do we have any news on the other kingdoms?"

Gae ran a finger over the map. "The Westerlands are still secure; father's seen to that. The North is now embroiled in a civil war. Some of the Northern Lords follow Edric Blackfyre, some follow Ned Stark's bastard, Jon Snow, and the rest are waiting to see who the victor will be. I'd pay good gold to see how a one-eyed boy would fare in a war."

"I only wish I could have met his father," Saernys said. "Drakon was a remarkable man, and if even half the stories about him are true, he may have been the greatest fighter the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen. Even greater than Barristan Selmy."

"Well, his dynasty is crumbling fast. King's Landing is going up in flames; from what I hear, his widow has done nothing to calm the rioting peasants, and that 'High Sparrow' has the whole place in his grip. The Lords of Crackclaw Point are still nominally loyal to the Crown, but Visenya hasn't proven worthy of it so far. And we're getting reports of trouble stirring in the Eyrie."

"Even if the Eyrie weren't having troubles, the Lords of the Vale would never leave the safety of their mountains," Saernys said. "What about Dorne?"

Gae shook his head. "Nothing. We can't get a single whiff of information from anywhere down south."

"Prince Doran is likely keeping a tight leash on his people. He's the sort of man who waits to see which victor he'll swear allegiance to."

"And once again, dear sister," Gae said, "how do you plan to recruit more troops to our cause?"

Saernys smiled. She stepped to the right and pointed at Myr, in Essos.

"You can't be serious," Gae said.

"I am always serious, aren't I?"

"And what do you expect me to do?"

"Do what you do best, Gae. Convince those who might be useful to us that our family is worth their allegiance. I'm certain father would be more than happy to provide the necessary funds for this endeavour."

"An expensive endeavour," Gae noted.

"Yes. And time, as they say, is money. I've already had a ship prepared, and it awaits you at the Shield Islands. Euron Greyjoy has already sent a longboat which will take you to it. From there, you sail to Essos."

Her brother gave her a narrowed gaze. "You just want to get me out of the way so you can claim all the glory for taking the Reach."

"Of course I will."

Gae walked around the table, and the siblings embraced. "Take care, Sae."

"I will. Once I take Highgarden, you'll have all the gold necessary to accomplish your mission. No Fire Without Shadow."

"No Fire Without Shadow," Gae echoed. He walked out of the dining hall, giving her one last smile of support before he was gone.

Saernys sighed, plopping herself down onto the chair at the head of the table. Her head was almost completely clear of the chair's back. Randyll Tarly must have been a short man. She placed Dark Drinker on her lap. The Darklyte ancestral weapon gave her comfort in private and strength in battle; it felt good to hold the weapon her ancestor, Faelyn, had retrieved from Essos. Sitting straight in her seat, Saernys placed a sheet of parchment in front of her, dipped a quill in ink, and started writing one of several letters.

Time to prove she could scheme with the best of them.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

After watching Edric ride out of Winterfell, Sansa spent the rest of the day overseeing the castle. She found it helpful to stay distracted, given the circumstances. Brienne was ever at her side, providing comfort by her very presence. Every few minutes, she would sneak off to the kitchens and grab bits of food. Where before she had eaten lemon cakes as her favourite treat, she now consumed them with a ravenous hunger.

This child was only encouraging her to indulge her favourite guilty pleasure.

Sansa had learned that she was pregnant weeks ago, after Maester Pyne had confirmed it. She had not told Edric about it for some time. Initially, it was to surprise him, but after the troubles with Jon and the Wildlings had begun, the situation had become vastly more complicated.

There came a point when Sansa could not wait any longer, and she told him. Edric was overjoyed, of course, and it had been the happiest she had ever seen him. After losing his eye, his father, and with all the burdens of lordship on his shoulders, he finally had something that brought only joy to his life. Sansa was glad to make him happy, after all he had done to make her happy.

In the evening, Sansa dined with Margaery. Now that they were both pregnant, the two women had even more to talk about, gossiping about knights and politics. It was a pleasant distraction. Though she was her usual, delightful, self, Margaery seemed distracted. She must have been worried about troubling news to the south, that Edwyn was now waging a war against a secret family of Targaryen blood who sought to usurp the throne. Sansa and Margaery were in the same position, with both their twin husbands engaged in costly civil wars.

Afterwards, Sansa retired to her chambers. She disrobed and got under the covers, clutching the furs tight. She felt at her belly, which was already growing with new life.

Sansa was nearly the same age as her mother when Robb was born. It had been three years since her mother's death, but there were times when it felt like it had happened yesterday. Sansa could still picture her mother, but the image in her mind was unclear, like the echo of a memory. She saw a woman who stood with authority and grace, auburn hair tied into a braid behind a soft, yet firm, face.

Most of her family were gone, reduced to only memories. Her father, mother, and brothers were dead, and Arya had not been seen in years. Sansa had the chance to start a new family with Edric while she kept the memories of her parents and siblings alive.

But she still had Jon.

Sansa glanced at the other side of the bed, her hand grazing over the sheets as she keenly felt her husband's absence. This dispute between Edric and Jon had to stop, before it could claim any more lives. Both of them needed to find a way to work things out. Her largest concern was that Edric would bow to the pressure of the other nobles; with men like Smalljon Umber and Ludd Whitehill pressuring him to war, she feared Edric might do something foolish.

Harald Karstark and Robett Glover would not likely aid her, as both their Houses were still bitter towards the Starks for how Robb's decisions had led to the Red Wedding. For any sort of diplomatic resolution to this conflict, the only one she could turn to was Jon.

Having reached her decision, Sansa got out of bed and sat down at the desk. Dipping a quill in ink, she wrote down the words that came to mind. Jon would understand. Edric, however, might not. She would have to convince him that this was the best course of action. For the survival of her family, her whole family, this had to be done.

Sansa opened the door, and Brienne turned around, surprised. "Is there something wrong, my lady?" she asked.

"I need you to send a raven with this letter," Sansa replied, handing over the rolled-up parchment.

"Who is this intended for?"

"My brother, at Castle Black."

Brienne's surprise was obvious, yet understated. "Lord Blackfyre wouldn't approve."

"No, he wouldn't," Sansa agreed. "Will you do it?"

The large, armoured woman looked at the letter in her hand, then back at Sansa. "Of course, my lady." She turned and stalked off into the darkened halls of the castle.

Seven willing, this would all be over soon.

* * *

From atop her black horse, Katryna watched the sun setting on the horizon, a pair of riders trailing behind her. As per Lord Edric's instructions, she and a number of hand-picked scouts and hunters had ranged across the Wolfswood and Kingsroad. If an enemy force was spotted, word was to be sent to Winterfell at once. Fortunately, Katryna and her scouts had seen nothing. Lord Edric's preparations for a battle at Winterfell were undisturbed, and she intended for it to remain that way.

A sharp cry from above drew her gaze. Katryna smiled as she saw Jeran, her pet falcon, descending towards her. He flapped his wings to slow his approach, clutching the thick, wool sleeve of her outstretched arm with his talons.

She smiled as he picked at something under his wing with his beak. Katryna had named him after her father, a Northern soldier who had chosen to live in the Riverlands after Robert's Rebellion. When King Drakon had commanded her to serve his son, she considered it a blessing. It was an opportunity to explore her father's ancestral homeland. Thus far, the land and the people had lived up to his stories.

Jeran suddenly squawked, flapping his wings in agitation.

Katryna tensed, looking around for signs of danger. There was still enough sunlight to see properly, but it was fading. She could not see anyone else on the path to Winterfell, and by now the workers digging trenches in the field were in their beds. Turning her eyes to the sky, she noticed a small black dot in the distance. It passed through the air, heading north.

It was a raven.

By itself, the presence of a raven was no cause for concern. With Lord Edric's forces mobilizing for war, and scattered across the North as they were, ravens had been sent from Winterfell for weeks now. But something made Katryna suspicious of this particular raven; it was late, and everyone in the castle who would have a reason to send a raven would be asleep.

These were dangerous times, and with the whole country engulfed in civil war, nothing was above suspicion.

Katryna shook her arm, and Jeran hopped off, flying towards a nearby tree. She unslung the bow from her shoulders and knocked an arrow. If this turned out to be a normal missive, she would ride through the night herself and deliver it to Lord Edric. Taking aim, she waited until the raven was close enough, then fired. A lifetime of training ensured that her arrow struck true, killing the raven and causing it to plummet to the ground.

Katryna rid over to where it landed, dismounted, and grabbed the message tied to the bird's foot. It was sealed with the Direwolf that Lord Edric had taken for his House's symbol, but instead of black, the wax used was grey. The Starks had used grey wax in their seals, which only added to her concern.

Katryna broke the seal. As she read the letter's contents, her eyes widened in shock.

She whistled for one of the riders to approach. "Take this to Lord Edric at once. Show it to no one but him and do not stop riding until you reach him. Am I understood?"

The scout nodded, seemingly understanding the severity of her tone. He tucked the letter into his belt, then turned and rode north along the Kingsroad. With any luck, he would reach Lord Edric before it was too late.

Katryna knew this would crush him.

* * *

 _ **Volantis…**_

In the days after his rescue from Vaes Dothrak, Drakon spent the majority of his time asleep. He had been beaten over the course of many days, and would require a great deal of time to fully recover. Samwell elected to walk, giving Drakon his horse. Drakon would have refused, but he was far too weak to walk across Essos.

They reached Volantis a little over a week after departing Vaes Dothrak. The remainder of Samwell's forces, those who had not returned to Westeros with Randyll Tarly and Edwyn, were camped a few miles outside the city.

The men regarded Drakon's miraculous survival with stunned awe. It was understandable, since they had seen him fall from such a great height to be swept away by river currents. Drakon watched them as Samwell guided his horse; most of them stared with awe, but it was borne out of fear. They followed him because he was strong, and they feared the consequences should they even think of crossing him. After all, they had once followed Stannis Baratheon for the same reasons, and Drakon had crushed Stannis.

He considered Daenerys to be a better ruler than him in that regard. While she could be ruthless at times, living up to the legacy of her House, the last Targaryen was also kind. She inspired loyalty and devotion in her followers; men like Jorah Mormont, and even unscrupulous Sellswords like Daario Neharis, learned to fight and die in her name. She illuminated the masses and gave them hope, which was the most potent weapon a leader could bestow.

Drakon had learned only to be brutal in his ways. Fair, but still brutal. The ways of sword and fire were his province, and if Westeros was to escape the endless cycle of bloodshed and horror that had defined it for centuries, it would need leaders like Daenerys Targaryen to show it a better way.

They came to the command tent in the centre of the camp. Samwell and Ser Prester helped Drakon dismount, and the Blackfyre king grunted as his brutalized body pulsed with pain. The bright, noonday sun shone down on them as they were cooled by the ocean spray. Drakon, for the first time in what felt like forever, felt at peace.

Samwell began to lead him into the tent, but Drakon stopped him. "My horn, Samwell."

The stocky man nodded, gesturing to Nymeria. The massive Direwolf gripped the horn with its jaws, pulling it from the pouch on the horse's saddle. Samwell took it and gave it to Drakon.

Taking a deep breath, Drakon gave a single, sustained bellow with the horn. The carved symbols on its black surface glowed with power as the sound carried across the shoreline.

Everyone turned their gazes inland, searching the sky for any sign. A few minutes passed, but nothing happened. The only sounds came from the waves pushing and pulling against the shore. Drakon inhaled, then gave another bellow with the horn. Once again, the symbols glowed, and once again, nothing happened.

"My children do not answer my call," Drakon muttered, handing the horn to Samwell.

"They will come, Your Grace," Samwell said. "I imagine they have been ranging across the continent in your absence. On our journey to recover you, we saw one of Daenerys Targaryen's Dragons flying overhead, looking for food. I am certain yours will, also."

Drakon gave a weak smile. "Thank you, my friend. Your optimism keeps my spirits afloat."

Samwell guided him into the tent and helped him onto the cot in the corner. Ser Loras and Ser Prester took positions at the entrance, resuming their sworn duty.

Drakon slept through the night, not waking until the sun was already high in the sky. After stumbling out of bed, the first thing he did was blow his Dragon Horn. He waited all day, but still no sight of Rhaegon or Maelion. He blew the horn before retiring that night. For three days and nights, he blew the Dragon Horn twice, looking for his scaled children. In the meantime, he and Samwell took meetings in the command tent. The stocky Lord of Storm's End expressed a desire to return to Westeros, to let the kingdoms know of their liege's survival.

Drakon refused, citing the need for his Dragons. He could not let them remain in Essos, wandering alone, when their place was at his side. There was also the matter of the Iron Bank of Braavos. With the gold from the Masters of Slaver's Bay, he now had enough capital to pay off the realm's enormous debt, accrued from the War of Five Kings. Drakon would return to Westeros when its financial fealties were satisfied.

Just as Samwell was about to reply, the army camp was buffeted by a great wind.

Nymeria, who had been laying beside Samwell, got to her feet and growled. Drakon limped out of the tent, looking up at the sky. The day was especially cloudy, diluting the sunlight. Something passed overhead, casting a powerful gust of wind. Tents swayed from the intensity, and loose bits of clothing and random detritus flew about. The clouds shifted, and Drakon thought he saw a glint of silver. A moment later, something landed by the shore, causing the water to shoot up in a cloud, pelting the closest tents and soldiers.

It was Rhaegon.

The silver and gold Dragon had grown since Drakon had last seen him, now monstrously large and resplendently gleaming in the sunlight. Rhaegon lifted his head high and let loose a thunderous roar, announcing his presence like a god sent from the heavens. The soldiers all backed away, clamoring to stay away and avoid being possibly roasted alive. The earth shook as a second landing occurred, this time on the sandy shore. A pair of tents ripped free, tumbling over the path as Maelion roared his arrival, bronze and gold scales shining equally to his brother's.

Drakon smiled, limping towards Rhaegon without fear. The Dragon eyed him coolly. There was recognition in his gaze, but he had been flying free for weeks now. Would he try to attack?

Drakon's question was answered when Rhaegon leaned down and brought his head close. His nostrils were large enough to accommodate a human head, and he used them to sniff. Drakon reached out a hand and pressed his palm against Rhaegon's nose, feeling the hard smoothness of Dragon scales again. Rhaegon gave a low, pleased rumble.

"It is so good to see you again," Drakon said in Valyrian. Maelion approached, leaning in close as well. They both recognized him, and the strength of their bond still held. "Bring a half dozen horses!" he called to the soldiers nearby. Though they were reluctant, a number of men brought the horses, who whinnied and jerked this way and that. The soldiers had to resort to killing the animals and leaving them on the sand where the tide touched them.

Drakon stepped back, and Rhaegon gave a single, sustained blast of Dragon fire. Even from this far back, Drakon could feel the near-scalding heat of the flames. The horses' carcasses were cooked in seconds, and Rhaegon and Maelion each ate three horses. There was nothing left but bones and scattered strips of meat, and those were swept away by the water.

Their meal appeared to sate them, and both Dragons laid down, resting their heads on the sand. Drakon stroked their cheeks, speaking softly to them in Valyrian.

"Your Grace," Samwell said, approaching hesitantly. "Will we set sail for Braavos soon?"

"Not yet," Drakon replied. "Rhaegon and Maelion are only the first half of my family's legacy I need to reclaim. I must have the other half before I visit the Iron Bank."

"And what might that be?"

Drakon turned to regard his old friend. "What do you know of the history of my House, Samwell?"

"A little." When Drakon prompted him to elaborate, he added "Your ancestor, Daemon Blackfyre, was legitimized by his father, Aegon IV, along with all his siblings. He received Blackfyre, the ancestral Targaryen sword, from which he derived your House's name. He was killed in an attempt to claim the Iron Throne from his brother, Daeron."

"Very good," Drakon said. "After Daemon was killed in battle, his children fled to Essos with the aid of Daemon's brother and greatest supporter, Aegor Rivers."

"Bittersteel."

"Yes. In the years afterward, Aegor saw the support for House Blackfyre waning. He knew that action needed to be taken, otherwise my House would never have the support needed to claim the Iron Throne. So he created a company of Sellswords, who to this day have a reputation for martial excellence and staying true to a contract."

Samwell, nodding in sudden understanding, said "So, the other half of your family's legacy is…"

"The Golden Company," Drakon finished.

* * *

 **Hey all, it's another chapter! I felt so bad about the long wait before last chapter, so I wanted to get this one out as soon as I could.**

 **I hope you enjoy the little twists and unexpected developments I put in this chapter. Feel free to let me know if they fell flat to you. For me, Rhaegon and Maelion coming back and announcing their arrival is just like when Daenerys reunites with Drogon on the show, after she becomes the Ultimate Khaleesi. Drakon's back, and when it's time, he'll return home with a vengeance.**

 **I also hope the strategy talk with Edric and Smalljon at the beginning makes sense. If not, don't be afraid to say so!**

 **TheOnlyKing: Thanks! It's coming.**

 **TheIronEmperor: Thank you so much! And, really, if we didn't all get some meaning out of GoT and fanfiction in general, we wouldn't all be here. Yeah, Jayne is pretty ruthless, but she has to be. Like Cersei, she's a woman in a man's world, but she was specifically raised from childhood to be savvy and make the hard choices. I'm also tying that in with her maternal instincts, because it's been my observation (and this doesn't always apply) that mothers can be the greatest badasses and the most endurable people of the entire human race. No one messes with a mother Grizzly.**

 **As always, please review/favourite!**


	33. The Golden Company

_**Beyond the Wall…**_

Meera grunted as she pulled the sled. She had lost feeling in her fingers and toes hours ago; the biting chill seemed to slither under the furs she wore and stab every inch of her skin. Her face was numb, and her teeth clattered so hard she thought they might shatter. It was dark, and Meera could barely see five feet in front of her. The howling winds were so loud she could barely think, and the ankle-deep snow almost seemed to drag her feet down whenever she took a step.

Bran was silent. He had not spoken a word in hours, and his eyes were still pure white. Meera did not even know if he was still breathing, but still she pushed on.

She remembered their frenzied escape from the cave as the White Walkers and their legions of undead Wights closed in on them. Leaf and the other Children of the Forest had bought her and Bran enough time to get out through the back door with their lives. Hodor had been right behind them. The big man stayed behind to give them time to get away, to live. Meera could clearly remember the sight of Wight hands bursting through the wood, clawing at Hodor's flesh, and the sounds of their inhuman shrieks as they had slowly torn him to pieces.

He had held the door.

Now, Meera could feel herself slipping away, piece by piece as she hopelessly carried Bran through the endless forests Beyond the Wall. The extreme cold beckoned her to stop, to lay on the ground, close her eyes, and embrace the sweet, quiet embrace of death.

She clenched her jaw. That would not happen. Not now, not ever. She was Meera Reed, daughter of Howland Reed, heir to a proud legacy of the Crannogmen of the Neck.

Meera kept going, pulling with all her might even though her arms threatened to give out at any second. Suddenly, the sled caught itself on tree roots, and she tripped. Getting back to her feet, Meera grabbed the handles and pulled, grunting as she applied all her strength. It was not enough, and the sled would not move. She sat down on the ground, finally allowing herself to cry and acknowledge the hopelessness of their situation.

She crawled over to Bran's side and held his head in her hands. His eyes were still white, as they had been since his final vision with the Three-Eyed Raven.

Then, his eyes opened, returning to their normal colour.

"Meera," Bran said weakly. "They found us."

It was at that moment that Meera heard the growling. Through the howling of the wind and the darkness of the night, Wights were fast approaching.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, sobbing, as she wrapped her arms around him. At least neither of them would die alone, and she would have a chance to see her brother again.

A horse neighed.

Meera looked up and saw a black horse rearing back, a black-cloaked rider on its back. The horse kicked a Wight with its front hooves, knocking the rotting, skeletal head clean off. The rider, whose face was obscured, looked at them for a moment. A ball and chain hung from his hand, and the ball soon burst into flames from within.

The rider took off, facing the rest of the Wights. He swung his weapon, striking several of the undead in turn. They fell as wheat before a scythe, one by one, until only a handful were left.

Meera turned as a Wight charged towards her and Bran, arms flailing in animalistic fury. She drew her knife, but knew that she did not have the strength to fight.

A second rider emerged from the shadows, crossways from the Wight. This one wielded a massive warhammer in one hand, using it to break the Wight in half with a single swing. He joined his companion, and they both made short work of the remaining Wights. Meera smiled, but faltered upon hearing many more growls coming from the distance.

The first rider approached them, while the second kept watch. "Come with us, now," he said. He sounded older, and his voice had a low rasp.

"The dead don't rest," the second rider added. He sounded much younger, around Meera's age.

Meera nodded her assent, knowing the alternative was a painful death. The first rider bent down and picked up Bran with ease, laying him across his saddle. The second rider approached and offered her a hand, which she took. His hand was large, and his muscles were evident as he hoisted her behind him.

They rode off just as another horde of Wights came at them. Soon enough, they were far ahead of the dead, and for the first time, Meera could breathe a sigh of relief.

Later, after riding for two hours, they made camp. The older black rider set Bran down on a sheet of furs, while the younger made the fire. Meera sat, hugging her knees as she watched them. The younger rider went out into the forest and came back a short time later with a dead rabbit. The older rider took it and cut its head off before draining the blood into a cup.

"Why did you help us?" she asked them.

They looked at her, and the older rider answered "Three-Eyed Raven sent for us."

"The Three-Eyed Raven's dead," Meera said.

The younger rider tossed his horse's saddle on the ground. "Now he lives again."

Bran awoke, coughing. Meera hurried to his side and helped prop him against a tree.

"When I last saw you," the older rider said, "you were a boy. A fearless boy. Loved to climb the castle walls, frighten his mother."

"Who are you?" Bran asked.

The two riders shared a glance, and then the older one pulled back his hood and removed his scarf, revealing his face. He had a deathly pale complexion, and a thick beard along with dark eyes that looked weary from all they had seen.

Bran seemed to recognize him. "Uncle Benjen," he said in disbelief. "The last letter Jon wrote me said you'd been lost Beyond the Wall."

"I led a ranging party deep into the North to find White Walkers. They found us. A White Walker stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice. Left me there to die. To turn. The Children found me. Stopped the Walker's magic from taking hold."

"How?" Bran asked.

"The same way they made the Walkers in the first place. You saw it yourself."

"Dragonglass. A shard of Dragonglass plunged into your heart."

The younger rider sat down, pulling his hood back to reveal a handsome face with a head of thick black hair, but with the same pale complexion. "It was the same for both of us," he said. "I was part of the Great Ranging that went North to look for Benjen and the answers to his disappearance. We were hit hard by White Walkers and their Wights. I got separated from my brothers in the confusion, and a White Walker cornered me in the woods. I fought it, but nothing I did mattered."

He pulled his collar down to reveal a thin scar that ran across his neck.

"I slit my own throat rather than let them turn me. Thought I died then and there, but the next thing I knew, I woke up with the Children standing over me, telling me they'd just saved my worthless life."

"What's your name?" Meera asked.

"Derryk. My name's Derryk."

Benjen looked at Bran and said "You're the Three-Eyed Raven now."

"I didn't have time to learn," Bran protested. "I can't control anything."

Benjen stood and walked over to him, while Derryk sat and skinned the rabbit.

"You must learn to control it before the Night King comes." He gave Bran the cup with rabbit blood in it. "Drink."

Bran did so.

"One way or another, he will find his way to the world of men. When he does, you will be there waiting for him. And you will be ready."

"For all our sakes," Derryk added. "If not, then the dead will come to rule the world." He put the skinned rabbit on a spit and held it over the fire, staring at it with cold, intense eyes, the kind that men resigned to a lifetime of violence often had.

* * *

 _ **Highgarden…**_

Edwyn took quick, shallow breaths, clutching the sheets of his bed. He was drenched in sweat, and the stab wound on his leg burned like a searing fire. He could feel the burn spreading through his body like slithering serpents from the wound. Hearing voices beside him, Edwyn opened his eyes. He recoiled upon seeing the voices' owners. They looked familiar, as he recognized the armour of Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon, as well as the robes and chains of a Maester.

Their faces, however, belonged to demons.

Horns and scales, crimson eyes and fangs. The demons snarled, leering with their forked tongues and hollow cheeks. When they spoke, they sounded like the gust of hot air from a forge's bellow. The one that bore the armour of Dickon Tarly reached for Edwyn's face with a nine-fingered hand that bore a large, black eye in its palm.

Edwyn swatted the hand. "Back! You won't have me!" he growled. These demons would not take him.

The demon with Maester's chains whispered to the one with Randyll Tarly's armour. The latter barked out an order in its befouled, grating speech, and Edwyn found himself surrounded by demons with the armour of his household guard. Edwyn kicked and thrashed, and they backed away for a moment, but a moment later they surged, grabbing him by the arms and legs. He tried to struggle, but they held him down with their inhuman strength.

The demon Maester calmly approached, speaking in soothing tones as it cut into its flesh, bleeding into a vial. Edwyn pressed his lips shut, turning away, but the demon Randyll Tarly gripped his face, prying his mouth open.

The demon Maester poured the contents of the vial into his mouth, and the demon Randyll Tarly forced it shut.

Edwyn grunted, but despite his efforts, he could do nothing but swallow. The liquid was beyond bitter, and it clawed and scratched as it travelled down his gullet. The demons all released him and stepped back, but Edwyn was too exhausted to get up. He growled as the searing pain from his leg kept creeping through his tissues, visions of demons and unholy monstrosities flashing in his mind's eye.

Edwyn lost track of the days that passed by. The demons visited him several times a day, restraining him and pouring that foul liquid into his mouth. The pain from his injured leg also endured, but it was remarkably abating. Slowly, Edwyn's agony lessened after each demon visit, and his mind began to clear.

After the ninth day, Edwyn finally slept.

His dreams were equally as vivid as the sight of the demons that plagued him, but in a different way. There was a clarity about them, a sense that these things were meant to be seen. In them, Edwyn saw a black and blue spark in the Westerlands. It burst into a flame that spread across the west and consumed the Reach. A black Dragon, with thorny vines wrapped around it, flew into the flame only to be burned.

In the waters off the western shore, a massive kraken appeared. Its long tentacles snaked onto the land, and instead of suckers, they bore crimson eyes.

The black flame moved east, first surging over a tributary of the Mander river before it threatened to spill over the rest of Westeros.

Edwyn's eyes shot open, and he gasped. He was in his chambers in Highgarden, lying on top of the covers. Sunlight poured in through the windows, and the drapes fluttered in the evening breeze. How long had he been asleep? Edwyn tried to speak, but he could only produce a strained wheeze. His throat felt raw, like he had swallowed caltrops.

"M'lord?"

A guard approached his bed. He had likely been standing watch by the door. Edwyn beckoned him over, and the man leaned in close enough for him to rasp "W…wa…ter!"

"Yes, m'lord!" the guard said, rushing outside. He returned a few minutes later, pitcher in hand.

Edwyn sat up, groaning. Every muscle felt sore, and his bandaged leg still pulsed with pain, though not as agonizing as before. He accepted a cup of water from the guard, drinking it. The water was cool and crisp, running like ice down his throat. "W…" he started to say. Clearing his throat, he continued. "Where is Randyll Tarly? I must speak with him."

"He is in the great hall, m'lord," the guard replied.

"Take me to him."

The guard hesitated. "But, m'lord—"

"Now!" Edwyn barked, aggravating his throat. He gulped another cup of water.

The guard helped him up, supporting his weight. The walk down to the great hall took some time, longer than Edwyn would have liked. The guards, servants, and minor nobility who were walking about the castle stopped and looked at him with shocked expressions. This would surely give them something to gossip about, if they had not already started hypothesizing what fate their bedridden liege lord would meet.

The great hall had been emptied of everyone except for guardsmen. In the centre was a long wooden table, at which sat Randyll and Dickon Tarly, along with the other lords and knights of the Reach with any say in military matters.

"The Darklytes continue to raid and pillage in villages across the Reach," Lord Alester Florent said, gesturing to a map draped across the table. "They're stealing food and crops, burning down homes, and kidnapping our Smallfolk to force into their army. The more they take, the more we lose. Before long, we will have nothing to last us through winter."

Lady Arwyn Oakheart, sitting across from Lord Alester, shook her head. "A terrible waste. What possible reason could they have for such senseless havoc?"

"Because it gives them an advantage," Randyll Tarly explained. "This is war. The more they deny us now, the better their chances of outlasting us if we do not face them in battle."

Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, stood and leaned on the table. "The Darklytes are a problem, that I will not dispute. But we mustn't forget about the Ironborn. The Redwyne Fleet is keeping them at bay for now, but Euron Greyjoy and his raiders have already captured the Shield Islands and penetrated inland from the coast. They can easily launch a seaborne attack on this very castle if they so choose, cutting us off from the western territories."

"We are wasting our time," Lord Leyton Hightower said. "We can accomplish nothing if we simply wait here. The enemy is ravaging our lands, and unless we move against them, the Reach will be lost."

"And leave Highgarden defenseless?" Paxter Redwyne asked. "If we march from here, they will have the opening they need to lay siege. These accursed Darklytes possess some manner of foul, alchemical substances that have given them the decisive advantage in battle."

"That won't protect them forever," Edwyn interjected.

The argument died as the lords all stood, shocked. "My lord," Dickon Tarly said. "Thank the Seven you yet live!"

"If memory serves, I have a Maester to thank, Edwyn said.

An old man in robes with a thick chain around his neck stood and stepped away from the table. "No thanks necessary, sire. I was merely performing my duties."

Edwyn slipped his arm from the guard's shoulders, tentatively walking on his own. "Still, I am grateful. That Darklyte bitch must have poisoned her knife."

The Maester nodded. "I am certain that you were suffering from the effects of Demon's Dance, my lord. A rare and dangerous substance. It primarily affects the mind, causing the victim to suffer heinous hallucinations. They see foes instead of friends. Such afflicted are also prone to violent behaviours."

"And agonizing pain," Edwyn added.

"Just so."

"How long have I been in bed?"

"Ten days, my lord," Randyll Tarly said. "We have been trying to strategize in the face of the Darklyte rebellion, but so far without much success." He said the last with an almost disdainful glance at the other lords.

"So I heard," Edwyn said, walking to the head of the table. Randyll Tarly moved, allowing him to sit down. "I believe there is a way to head them off."

"How, my lord?" Leyton Hightower asked.

"Among my family, it can sometimes happen where a person can have…shall we say, prophetic visions in their sleep. We call them Dragon Dreams. Last night, I dreamt of the Darklytes and the Greyjoys. I saw their movements across the west. The Darklytes intend on taking Bitterbridge. From there, they can strike east, for King's Landing. With all the chaos going on there, the city will be ripe for the taking."

The lords shared nervous glances. None appeared to be brave enough to speak, but Dickon Tarly spoke up. "My lord—" he started.

"You all think I'm mad," Edwyn said, looking at them. "Don't you?"

"I think you should go back to bed, my lord," Randyll Tarly said. "You're clearly still in need of rest."

Edwyn slowly stood, staring the older man in the eyes. "I am Blood of the Dragon," he said. "My blood may be watered down. It may not be as pure as the Targaryen's. But my ancestors conquered this country and unified it under their rule. My father once had a Dragon Dream, and it led him to return home. Following that dream led to the Iron Throne and justice for the War of Five Kings and the murdering, backstabbing bastards who started it. So long as I live, I am Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South. I will defend these lands in my father's name, the Warrior be my witness!

"Give the order to muster our troops. Tomorrow we march, and snuff out the flames of rebellion once and for all!"

The gathered lords all stood and bowed.

Just as they started leaving, Edwyn said "Lord Tarly, Dickon, a moment." The two men stayed behind, taking empty seats. "Have you received any ransom demands for Lady Tarly and Talla?"

Randyll and Dickon shared a glance. "Not in so many words, my lord," the former said grimly.

Edwyn furrowed his brow, and in reply Dickon took something out of his pocket. "A lock of my sister's hair. It came here via raven four days ago."

Edwyn nodded. The implications were clear. "So, unless you negotiate with the Darklytes—"

"There will be no negotiation," Randyll said flatly.

Dickon appeared to be at a loss for words. "But father, what about mother and Talla? We can't just leave them to rot!"

"If we ransom them from the rebels, it will weaken our House! The rebels want us to come to the table because they think it will give them legitimacy."

"But they could die!"

Randyll looked his son in the eye and replied "There are casualties in war, boy. I thought I taught you that. The family is most important. You are most important. What we need to do is retake our keep from those traitors after we've crushed them in the field."

"You'll do no such thing," Edwyn said. Randyll gave him a withering glare, but he was not fazed. "You are talking about your wife and daughter. The fact that you consider them 'acceptable losses' disgusts me! Are you a husband and a father, or are you nothing but a coward?"

"A coward?!" Randyll growled, standing. "I will not be insulted by a—"

"Sit. Down." Edwyn interjected. "I am your liege lord. Are oaths of fealty something you take lightly, _my lord_?"

Randyll sat down.

"The Darklytes will use Lady Tarly and Talla as bargaining chips against you if you take the field. For now, you two will remain here and oversee the defense of Highgarden. The soldiers of Horn Hill will remain here, as well. I'll take the rest of our forces to Bitterbridge."

* * *

 _ **Outside Myr…**_

Drakon placed a hand on Samwell's shoulder, leaning on his friend for support as he limped along the road. It had taken them over a week to sail from Volantis, crossing through the Stepstone Islands along the way. Drakon's father, Maelys, had died there. He himself had almost died, only to be taken in by the family his father had tried to overthrow.

Everything changed the day Barristan Selmy killed Maelys the Monstrous.

After that, the fleet had entered the Sea of Myrth and docked at the ports of Myr. For practical reasons, Drakon had left Rhaegon and Maelion to roam on their own. Their massive size precluded them from resting on any of the ships, and their presence would have alarmed the entire city, delaying the journey. Drakon had his Dragon Horn, and knew they would be close enough to call in case of danger.

"You really ought to rest, Your Grace," Samwell said.

Drakon smirked. "Your concern is appreciated, but not necessary, my friend. I feel better every day." His time aboard the flagship had entirely consisted of sleeping and eating. Already, he could feel his strength slowly returning. Before long, he would be back to fighting shape. His swollen eye had healed enough that he could see out of it. He was reminded of Edric, who would never have full vision again. He missed his children dearly, and swore after Samwell's rescue that he would see them again, gods be damned.

Drakon wore simple leather clothing, coloured crimson with a black Dragon on his tunic, which was concealed by a crimson cloak that hid his body. He clutched that cloak tighter as he and Samwell and Nymeria, two soldiers who carried a large chest, and the two Kingsguard as an escort, crested a small hill. The Direwolf walked ahead, and when she came to the top of the hill, she stopped, tongue hanging out as she panted.

Drakon and the others caught up to her, and they stopped to admire the sight before them.

The Golden Company had recently taken up a contract with the city of Myr, and had established its camp half a league from the city walls. Tents, enough to house the company's 10,000-strong force, stretched in rows arranged in an expansive grid pattern. The cloth was stained a light shade of gold, so the camp seemed to blaze as it reflected the morning sun. A wooden palisade served as a defensive border, with one-man lookout towers providing ample coverage.

The sight of the camp flooded Drakon with memories, long-buried in the depths of his mind. He had been born in such a camp, long ago. His first memories were of his mother playing with him in his father's tent. Maelys had been the Captain-General of the Golden Company, just as all Drakon's ancestors had been since the time of Daemon's sons.

This was his birthright, a piece of the Blackfyre legacy that, for too long, had been separated from its rightful leader.

The main gate opened, and a group of horsemen, their strong horses girded in golden barding, rode out to meet them. Drakon saw a number of archers along the wall knocking arrows; given the infamous discipline of the company's soldiers, he and his companions would be dead before they had a chance to run.

The horsemen formed a circle around Drakon's party, leveling their spears. Nymeria growled, tensing. "That's far enough," the leader said. He was broadly built, with finely wrought armour and a thick, bushy beard. "Who are you, and what is your purpose here?"

"I am Drakon Blackfyre, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Father of Dragons."

The horsemen eyed each other nervously. The Blackfyre name held considerable weight, even decades after Maelys' death. The leader, clearly an officer of the company, said "Is that so? We heard Drakon Blackfyre died attacking Meereen."

"And yet, here I am," Drakon replied. "Take me to your captain. I wish to speak with him."

The officer was silent a moment, then "Alright, Drakon Blackfyre. You'll have your audience." He gestured to the other horsemen, who raised their spears.

Drakon and his companions passed through the main gate, escorted by the horsemen. The view inside the camp was no less impressive than outside: soldiers ate by campfires, sharpened their swords, or tended their horses. There was a remarkable efficiency to how they conducted themselves. As a unit, they performed better than most armies, save perhaps the Unsullied.

As a fighting force, there were none deadlier in the world.

"Seven Hells!" Samwell exclaimed, flinching as they passed an open stretch between tents. A number of the company Sellswords gathered around a large beast, the likes of which were never before seen in Westeros. The beast was massive, easily the height of two men, its titanic form strong enough to crush a man underfoot. Its leathery skin was grey, its ears wide, and its trunk long. A pair of sharp tusks protruded from its mouth.

Drakon smirked. "Have you never seen an elephant before, Samwell?"

"I-I heard stories, but never imagined." It was entertaining to see a dour, disciplined man like Samwell scared witless at the sight of a strange animal.

The elephant's handlers dumped buckets of water over its back, while one held out a large fruit. The elephant plucked the fruit with its trunk, which curled and deposited it into its waiting mouth. As they walked, Drakon and the others saw many other elephants, with others grazing outside the camp. The creatures' great size and power could be valuable assets in battle, but it was the sheer psychological terror they induced in foes who had never seen them before. That was their real value. If Samwell's reaction was any indicator, then elephants could turn the tide against any Westerosi army.

They came to a large tent in the very centre of the camp, its golden cloth gleaming like the sun. It was surrounded by a ring of pikes topped with the gilded skulls of previous Captain-Generals. Each of them had once belonged to men of legend, warriors who had commanded the greatest company of Sellswords in the world.

Drakon stopped as his eyes fell on a particular skull. Like the others, it had been dipped in gold. Unlike the others, a second, much smaller skull had been joined to it by the same gold.

Walking over to it, Drakon stared into the empty eye sockets and said "Hello, father."

Maelys Blackfyre had been called 'The Monstrous'. They said he devoured his own twin in the womb, and the deformed head on his shoulders was a remnant. They called him Kinslayer because of it. Drakon remembered precious little of his father; after all, he had died when Drakon was a toddler. All that he saw in his memory was the sight of a massive, armoured man who loomed over him.

Now, he was face-to-face with his father's only remains.

"Neither of us thought it would turn out this way. You thought you would invade Westeros and become King, I thought I would be buried by our curse. Claiming the Iron Throne was your only goal; Visenya and I were a means to that end, meant to carry on the Blackfyre name. I have no way of knowing if you truly loved us or not. I want you to know that I fulfilled our family's quest. Because of me, a Blackfyre sits on the Iron Throne. Whatever you thought of me, father, I want you to know you didn't die in vain. You can rest easy." Drakon turned to walk away, but faltered. "Goodbye, father."

"Wait here," the officer said. After dismounting, he entered the tent. He returned a few minutes later. "Go ahead. They're eager to meet with you."

When Drakon entered the tent, he did so on his own. He still limped, but it was important to project authority. A King who could not walk on his own was not an attractive client.

The inside of the tent was filled with resplendent silk tapestries, a table off to the side carved from the finest oak, and fine furs covered the ground. Four men stood before a gold banner, depicting a black spear topped by golden skulls, the sigil of the company.

The man on the left was cadaverous, with a pointed black beard and blood-red hair, and wore a leopard skin draped on one shoulder. Gorys Edoryen, the Company Paymaster.

The man on the right was white-haired with skin as dark as soot. Drakon figured him a Summer Islander. He wore a magnificent feathered cloak of green and orange. Black Balaq, Commander of the Company Archers.

The other man on the right had long, white-gold hair and lilac eyes. His lips were full, almost feminine, and his fingernails were painted purple while pearls and amethysts hung from his earlobes. Lysono Maar, Company Spymaster.

The man in the centre was portly, with a round head, grey eyes and thinning grey hair brushed to the side to cover a bald spot. Harry Strickland, the Captain-General of the Golden Company. His face was almost familiar, but Drakon could not identify how. He knew of the man, but they had never met before.

While the other three regarded him with suspicion, Harry Strickland smiled. "Well, if it isn't little Drakon! My, how you've grown."

That was how he knew him!

"Harry?" Drakon asked. The memories from his youth cleared, and he could remember a pudgy, older boy who spent time with him and his mother. He and Harry embraced, chuckling.

"You know him, Your Grace?" Samwell asked.

"Yes," Drakon replied as he and Harry separated. "We played together as children."

"You had black hair, then," Harry said. "Last any of us heard, you'd fallen from your Dragon at Meereen, never seen again."

"I fell," Drakon confirmed. "Into a river. It carried me north, where a Dothraki Khalasar captured me. I only just escape not too long ago."

"And now you are here," Lysono Maar noted. The Spymaster regarded him with the cautious eyes of a man expecting a threat. "What business brings you to our camp?"

Drakon took a moment to look each man in the eye. This would be a difficult obstacle to overcome. "I have come to make you an offer." He gestured to the soldiers carrying the chest, who placed it on the floor in front of Harry and his comrades. They opened the lid, revealing it to be full of gold coins and jewels. "This is only a taste of the riches I offer. I can give you much, much more."

Gorys Edoryen stared with practiced, albeit reserved, greed. The other three, however, narrowed their eyes at Drakon.

"You want to hire the company," Black Balaq said.

Drakon nodded.

Harry rubbed his chin and said "Drakon, you surely know the strictures we abide by. We have a contract with the Magisters of Myr. The Golden Company has never broken a contract, nor shall we ever."

"I understand. You are an honourable brotherhood, in a world where honour is in short supply. But you seem to have forgotten your history. You were founded as a bastion for Blackfyre power. You were led by Blackfyres for decades, until my father's death."

"A lot of good that did us," Harry countered. "We lost a lot of good soldiers when your father tried to claim the Iron Throne. Some men here still have scars from when Barristan Selmy cut a swath through our numbers."

Barristan's face appeared in Drakon's vision, and he felt a stab of guilt in his heart.

"It's been almost fifty years since we were led by a Blackfyre," Black Balaq said. "And now you want us to break a contract so you can use us in your feud with Daenerys Targaryen."

Harry nodded. "It seems the only difference between now and the old days is that a Blackfyre is king and a Targaryen is the rebel."

Drakon glanced at Samwell. "I understand your hesitance. After all, my family history is defined by rebellion and strife. But now I am king. Without a monarch who was Blood of the Dragon, Westeros rotted. The descendants of Aegon the Conqueror are the only ones with the vision and will to make the world a better place. When I became king, I burned away the usurpers and the oathbreakers. I hold myself to the same standards as you. As for Daenerys Targaryen, I do not want her death. Our families have fought for too long; now is the time to build alliances, to construct a foundation upon which a new order can be built. You are an integral part of that vision."

There was one more card Drakon could play, but he chose to hold it in reserve. As a general rule, he never played his full hand in the opening move. The Golden Company were the most honourable Sellswords in Essos, but they were still Sellswords. For the better part of a century, they had been guided by gold and business.

If Drakon had any chance of changing them, giving them a higher purpose, he had to start by tempting them with worldly wealth and promises of something better.

The four men were silent for some time. Eventually, Harry said "You've given us much to consider, Drakon. Normally we would reject such an offer outright, but out of respect for you, and the memory of your sweet mother, we'll discuss it. You have my word."

Drakon inclined his head. "That is all I ask."

"In the meantime, we'll give you and your men lodgings. The Serjeant outside will show you to your tent."

Drakon turned and left, with Samwell and the Kingsguard by his side. The soldiers left the chest. With any luck, he would make his position tempting enough for the company to break its contract with Myr. In the wake of his captivity at the hands of the Dothraki, and the visions he had had of Rhaegar and his past, Drakon had a clear vision of the future. The better world he promised Daenerys was within his reach, so long as the Golden Company was part of it.

Only time would tell.

* * *

 _ **Ironrath…**_

Rolfe sat on a tree stump, sharpening his axes. Beside him were Rodrik and Asher Forrester, along with twenty Essosi pit fighters, twenty Forrester men-at-arms, and 100 Wildlings led by Gjalda.

And one Giant with a bad attitude.

The Ironwood trees towered above them, mighty pillars of the strongest wood in Westeros. Rolfe had heard stories of how strong Ironwood was; a few brothers in the Night's Watch had used shields made of it. Those shields could block even the sharpest steel. Yet, the forest was only half the size it used to be. On their way to Ironrath, Rolfe and the others had seen acres upon acres of Ironwood trees cut down, leaving swathes of forest completely empty. The Whitehills had been busy since taking the Forrester lands.

The Forrester brothers had petitioned Jon Snow to give them some men to help retake their ancestral home, and Jon had agreed. If they were going to move against Winterfell, then having a stronghold in the nearby Wolfswood would be invaluable.

Rolfe, having struck a bond with the Forrester brothers, had tagged along.

As he sat by the fire, sharpening his axes with a stone, all he could think of was revenge. Drakon Blackfyre had murdered his son Sebastion for his name, and Rolfe was going to return the favour. A son for a son. Before he died, the grizzled Ranger would draw Edric Blackfyre's blood.

Asher Forrester sat beside him, waterskin in hand. "I sure hope you know how to use those," he said, nodding to Rolfe's axes.

Rolfe snorted. "Boy, you've never seen me fight before. My father taught me how to carve wood since I was five. I know how to carve something where it matters, to shape it to my liking. If I think someone has one arm too many, or needs their cock resized, I do it with these axes. You don't get to be my age in the Night's Watch unless you know how to kill."

Asher chuckled. "Fair enough."

"What about them?" Rolfe asked, gesturing to the pit fighters. "Are you sure they're any good in a fight?"

The bald woman who led them, Amaya, her skin dark as midnight, drank and sang with the others. The big one, the Beast, belted some horrid Valyrian song, while Bloodsong skinned a rabbit he had caught earlier.

"Aye, they'll do fine. They may lack manners, but they're tough sons of whores."

"In case you haven't noticed," Rodrik said as he approached, "no one here has any manners, brother." Rodrik had been wearing his armour since they left Castle Black, even sleeping in it. It was not hard to understand why, given how he had survived the Red Wedding.

Something fell to the ground beside Rolfe, who flinched. It was a stag, neck twisted so far its head was on backwards. Looking up, Rolfe saw the Giant, Wun Wun, staring down at him. He gulped, somehow managing not to piss himself. The Giant snorted, then sit down on the ground so hard Rolfe almost slid from his stump.

"Gods, that thing makes Direwolves look like chickens," Asher said.

Rolfe said nothing. Once he was satisfied with the sharpness of his axes, he walked over to where Gjalda knelt in the snow, head bent towards the sky. Her eyes were pure white; somewhere out there, her mind-controlled Shadowcat, Hildi, prowled near Ironrath, scouting the defenses with the creature's enhanced eyesight.

After several minutes of waiting, Rolfe fell asleep, leaning against a nearby tree. He awoke sometime later with Hildi inches from his face. He startled, banging his head on the tree trunk. The Shadowcat stared at him with eyes far more intelligent than it naturally possessed. Its fangs caught the light of the setting sun as its breath came in white clouds. Hildi leaned close and licked Rolfe's face with its rough tongue.

Then, it backed off, and Gjalda sucked in a breath as her eyes returned to normal.

"That wasn't funny," Rolfe told her, his muscles tense from having a deadly animal licking him. "Not funny at all."

Gjalda chuckled. "Still so jumpy, Crow."

Having noticed her newly returned consciousness, Rodrik and Asher approached. "What did you see?" the elder brother asked.

"Soldiers, manning the walls," the Chieftess replied. "It looks like most of them are gone; there's only a few left guarding the keep."

"Maybe Ludd took his troops to join Edric Blackfyre," Asher suggested. "I can't wait to sink my blade through his fat belly."

"If the Whitehill army has moved on, then this is our chance," Rodrik said.

Rolfe glanced at the horizon. "We best move quick. It'll be dark soon."

Rodrik nodded. He turned to the rest of their group and said "Pack up camp and be ready to move out. By the Old Gods, I swear that Ironrath will be ours before morning!"

The trek to Ironrath did not take long. Everyone moved fast and quiet, even Wun Wun. The dark forest helped conceal its great size. Before long, they were within sight of the keep. Ironrath was every bit as impressive as the Forrester brothers made it out to be. The looming Ironwood wall was topped with the occasional bit of torchlight, and Rolfe's experienced eyes counted only ten men. The rest of the garrison must have been asleep or somewhere else in the North.

Rodrik and Asher led them to the keep's postern gate. The brothers had escaped through it when the Whitehills laid siege to Ironrath, but not before killing Gryff Whitehill.

"Have a go at that, big man," Gjalda said, gesturing to Wun Wun.

The Giant snorted. It lumbered over to the gate, ramming its shoulder into it. The gate buckled, but held. Wun Wun tried again and again, and the fourth time was enough to smash it open; the wooden panels flew apart, creating an opening.

Rolfe drew his axes as he followed the others inside.

Once they were inside the courtyard, they split up. Gjalda took a number of the Free Folk to the right, towards the wall. They started killing the sentries with arrows. Rolfe crept along the side of the stable, hearing voices. Around the corner, he saw two Whitehill soldiers standing watch over the horses. Rolfe hurled his axe at the farthest soldier, which buried itself into his skull, and tackled the second soldier as he turned around. An axe to the face silenced him.

The horses stirred at the act of violence, and one of them whinnied, pulling against the rope tying it to the wall.

The relative silence of the night was shattered as a warning bell rang. It lasted only a few seconds, but that was enough. Rolfe looked up at the wall and saw the last sentry falling, an arrow in his neck. Gjalda and the Free Folk joined him, weapons drawn.

"You think they heard that?" she asked.

A second bell rang from within the keep, accompanied by shouting.

"Aye, they heard it," Rolfe replied dryly. Gjalda narrowed her eyes at him, but he could only shrug.

Rodrik and Asher stood at the foot of the keep's steps, weapons and armour covered in blood. They stood, still as statues, staring up at something. Rolfe followed their gaze. There, hanging above the main entrance, was the body of a woman. Her clothes were dirty and bloody, a large cut in her belly, while her eyes had been carved out. Her neck tilted to the side at an impossible angle, indicating it had been broken by the rope or before.

"Mother," Rodrik said, his voice soft as a whisper.

Asher's sword hand quivered with impotent rage. "Those sons of whores! I'm gonna kill every last one of 'em!"

"I think you'll get your chance," Rolfe said. Dozens of Whitehill soldiers came charging out of the main entrance, roaring battle cries. Wun Wun kicked the nearest man, who screamed as he flew through the air before crashing through a window. Rolfe and the others counter-charged, and a chaotic melee erupted in front of the keep.

Rolfe slashed an axe across a soldier's eyes, and he noticed a man in full plate armour at the rear. He wore a helm with curved ram's horns on the side, and he cut through three of the Free Folk. Rodrik and Asher spotted him as well, and they forced their way through before attacking him.

"I'll have killed me a couple Forresters before morning," he said to them. "Then you can join your whore mother!"

The brothers roared as they savagely slashed and stabbed at him.

Rolfe returned his attention to the rest of the melee. The pit fighters were proving themselves as fierce as they looked. The Beast barely flinched as he was stabbed in the side, crushing the throat of his attacker, while Bloodsong danced from kill to kill. Before long, they whittled the Whitehills down to almost nothing. Just as Wun Wun bashed two men's heads into each other, Rodrik and Asher drove the enemy knight back.

Rodrik punched him in the face, while Asher slashed his legs. Rodrik drove his sword through the man's side, while Asher drove his blade through the back of the man's head. Both brothers unceremoniously kicked the corpse down the stairs.

"Ironrath is ours!" Rodrik declared, raising his sword high.

Rolfe and the others cheered. This was a great victory, the first of many. Before long, they would strike at Winterfell, and kill Edric Blackfyre once and for all.

The keep was a mess inside. Tables were covered with leftover food and dirtied tablecloths, chairs were overturned, and a banner with the Forrester sigil covered the floor. Judging by the smell, the Whitehills had been pissing on it. Rolfe accompanied Rodrik as he made his way to the top of the keep. "Elaena!" he called. "Elaena, where are you?"

"Rodrik?" Rolfe and the eldest Forrester turned to see a beautiful woman with long, dark hair who wore a faded, rose-coloured dress. Her face was pale and worn from fear, while her eyes were wide and disbelieving. She ran into Rodrik's arms, holding him tightly. "Oh, Rodrik, it was horrible! It was so horrible! They told me you were dead, that Ludd had caught you and taken your head."

"It's alright, Elaena," Rodrik said, gently shushing her. "I'm here, now. And I will never leave you again."

Later, Rodrik and Asher held a funeral for their mother, Lady Elissa Forrester.

* * *

 _ **Outside Myr…**_

Drakon stepped out of the tent, inhaling the crisp morning air. His dreams were far more peaceful than the visions he had experienced as a captive of the Dothraki.

Harry and the other leaders of the Golden Company would likely give him their answer to his offer today. The company was almost as famous for its punctuality as its code of honour.

He decided to take a walk through the camp, realizing he needed the exercise. His full strength would return in time, but he felt an overwhelming need to recover by the time he returned to Westeros. The people needed to know that their king still lived.

Ser Loras and Ser Prester accompanied him a half step behind, ever-vigilant shadows protecting a Dragon.

Along the way, Drakon spotted a familiar face. At first, he did not recognize it, but as he stared, his memories stirred. Memories of his childhood in the Red Keep, seeing the goings on through secret doorways and hidden corridors. Rhaegar had considered him a brother, but there was one man who the prince considered a true friend.

"Jon Connington!" Drakon called, drawing the other man's attention.

The former Lord of Griffin's Roost looked at him with surprise. His face was lined and leathery, with crows feet at the corners of his pale blue eyes. His hair and beard were red, with noticeable patches of grey. His armour was gold, but not as gaudy as Harry's, meaning he was likely a middling officer of the company.

"You must be Drakon Blackfyre," he said, appearing cautious. "Word of your arrival spread like wildfire yesterday."

Drakon smirked. "I suppose the prodigal son returning to the company after all these years would be worthy of gossip. Neither of us are in the positions we occupied when Rhaegar lived."

Jon looked away, his face wracked with pain and guilt. "No. Those days are forever lost to us."

"Would you mind sharing a drink with me? Your commanders have yet to give me a reply."

The former Lord of Griffin's Roost appeared to think it over. "Very well."

Drakon then found himself sitting in Jon's tent, sharing a pitcher of wine. The two Kingsguard stood watch outside. "We've met before," he told Jon.

"Have we?"

"Yes. I must have been…sixteen at the time. I foolishly challenged Rhaegar to a duel, thinking my lessons with Barristan Selmy had made me a knight. Rhaegar beat me in three moves and knocked me to the ground. You stood off to the side and watched, offering me a—"

"Sewing needle for your wounded pride," Jon finished, his eyes bright with recognition. "Yes, I do remember you. King Aerys' worst-kept secret."

Drakon chuckled. "Yes, I suppose. Though, if King Aerys had not kept me confined to the lower levels of the Red Keep, I would have died along with Rhaegar's family."

Jon took a big gulp of his wine. He stared into space, lips curled in a resentful sneer. "My world ended the day Robert Baratheon killed Rhaegar. My beautiful silver prince, cut down before his wife and children were butchered. I could have stopped it; I could have checked Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Bells, but I failed. Because of my failure, Rhaegar died, and I was exiled here, to live out my days in shame."

Drakon sipped his wine. Here was a man who, much like himself, was close to Rhaegar and considered himself failing his friend. Jon and other exiles like him formed the backbone of the Golden Company, banished from their homes for crossing one lord or another. They belonged in Westeros, and if Drakon were to ever craft the better world he promised to Daenerys, then the Golden Company had to return to its true home.

"I had the chance to save Rhaegar's children," Drakon said. "But I didn't. I was too much of a coward. Rhaegar was my brother, if not by birth then by choice. How do we go on? How do we justify living when those who were better than us are long dead?"

Jon looked at him, brow heavy with weary. "Hate. Hate is the fire that sustains us in the cold misery of regret."

Drakon leaned forward. "And are we supposed to live the rest of our lives like that? Can we not say that those we lost would want us to move on, rather than wallow in the past? Rhaegar was a good man, and he would have made a great king. He believed in more than just petty schemes and politics. He believed in a better world, where we could work together to forge a collective destiny rather than destroy ourselves."

Jon was silent for several moments. Just as he was about to speak, however, the tent flap opened. Drakon turned to see Samwell standing there.

"Your Grace," the stocky man said, panting. "Someone just entered the camp, a Westerosi. They're making an offer for the company."

Drakon stood. "Do you know who?" he asked. He could not afford to have his plans threatened, not now. Not when he was so close. Everything depended on the Golden Company coming with him back to Westeros.

"No, Your Grace. But that isn't all." Samwell nervously swallowed. "This person has silver hair and purple eyes."

"What?" Drakon said, dropping his cup. That was impossible. The only ones who were Blood of the Dragon in Westeros were him and his family. The fact that a Westerosi with silver hair and purple eyes was here made the threat to his plans all the more immediate. Without delay, he limped from Jon Connington's tent as fast as he could. Ser Loras and Ser Prester joined him and Samwell, while Nymeria led the way.

* * *

 _ **The Dothraki Sea…**_

Olene was furious.

During the rescue of Queen Daenerys, she had stayed hidden among the alleys of Vaes Dothrak, keeping watch as Ser Jorah and Daario went for the Queen. From her vantage, she saw every minute of the conversation between Queen Daenerys and Drakon Blackfyre. Olene had touched Kovarro's braid on her belt, her sword drawn.

Her vengeance was literally within her reach, and yet it had been denied to her.

Drakon Blackfyre looked weak, crippled from his captivity. And yet three of his followers had come to rescue him, along with the massive wolf that she remembered from the skirmish at the Blackfyre camp at Meereen. The wolf would have sniffed her out in a heartbeat, and it was far faster and stronger than her.

So, Olene had been forced to watch her Queen parley with her sworn enemy. They appeared to reach some sort of agreement, as both of them entered the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen before it was set ablaze. Only Daenerys had walked out, but Olene suspected Drakon Blackfyre had escaped through the back.

Now, she rode with Daario by the Queen's side, at the head of a massive Dothraki horde. All the Khalasars now followed the last Targaryen; the promise of Khal Drogo years prior was now fulfilled.

The Queen had sent Ser Jorah away, to find a cure for his Greyscale. Olene would miss him, as he was a man of honour who served faithfully.

As they rode, Olene's thoughts turned to Drakon Blackfyre, the man who had stolen her lover and her child from her. All that mattered now was killing him; everything she did from now on would be for the purpose of ending his life. He did not deserve his throne, just as he did not deserve happiness when it was taken from her.

She urged her horse forward, comin alongside the Queen's horse. "Your Grace, when will we move against Drakon Blackfyre?"

"Now is not the time, Olene."

"When? When will be the time? We could have killed him in Vaes Dothrak, but you chose to ally with him!"

The Queen looked at her. "I have not allied with him. Not yet. I simply chose to put aside our differences to destroy a common enemy."

"And now that is done, when will he die?" Olene pressed. "How much longer must I wait to avenge Kovarro?"

"The situation is quite…complicated, Olene," the Queen said. "I understand your pain, but—"

"Then why do you deny me this? You burned the witch who took Khal Drogo and your son from you. I must do the same."

The Queen offered a sympathetic smile. "Our history has been an endless cycle of revenge going back centuries. If we want to build a new world, a better world, then the cycle must be broken. The wheel must stop turning. We have to look forward. Build, not just destroy."

Olene could not believe what she was hearing. The queen she had sworn her service to, protected all these years, was talking of forgiving her sworn enemy, the man who betrayed her and stole her throne.

"Drakon Blackfyre has done many wrongs," the Queen continued. "But he is also of my blood, and I must consider the possibility of working with him for the greater good. Our Houses cannot continue to fight each other. Ser Barristan once told me that sometimes it is better to answer injustice with mercy. I did not heed his advice, and my actions led to the people of Meereen rebelling against me. A good ruler must be strict, but a good queen must also show kindness and mercy. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but I hope I can continue relying on your service. You've been such a loyal friend."

Despite herself, Olene suppressed her objections and simply said "Yes, Your Grace."

They kept riding, over hills and through valleys, back towards Meereen. The Queen stopped, as did Olene, Daario, and the horde.

"Everything alright?" Daario asked.

The Queen looked at him and Olene. "How many days' ride to Meereen?"

"A week, at best," Daario replied.

"How many ships will I need to bring my Khalasar to Westeros?"

"Dothraki and their horses, Unsullied, Second Sons…1,000 ships, Your Grace. Easily," Olene said. "Probably more."

"And who has that many?"

"Nobody," Daario said.

"Nobody yet."

"So we ride for Meereen and then, after that, sail for Westeros. What then?"

"I take what is mine," the Queen told him.

"You weren't made to sit in a chair in a palace," he countered.

"What was I made for?"

"You're a conqueror, Daenerys Stormborn."

The Queen did not say anything. She looked ahead, at the opening of the valley they occupied. "Wait here," she commanded. Olene and Daario watched her ride out of view. They waited for quite some time, and the Dothraki were starting to get restless.

"I'm going to look for her," Daario said in Dothraki. "Wait for me here."

Just as his horse started moving, a monstrous roar thundered from nearby.

The horde startled, their horses fidgeting in fear. A great shadow fell over them, and Olene looked up to see the winged form of Drogon. The mighty black Dragon soared through the air, before landing on a hill overlooking the entire horde. The queen sat atop his back, looking every bit as regal and fierce as a Targaryen could.

"Every Khal who ever lived chose three Bloodriders to fight beside him and guard his way. But I am not a Khal. I will not choose three Bloodriders. I choose you all."

The Dothraki cried out, raising their weapons high.

"I will ask more of you than any Khal has ever asked of his Khalasar! Will you ride the wooden horses across the Black Salt Sea?"

They shouted their affirmation.

"Will you kill my enemies in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses?"

Another shout.

"Will you give me the Seven Kingdoms, the gift of Khal Drogo promised me before the Mother of Mountains? Are you with me? Now and always?"

At each question, they cried out their support for their new Khaleesi. She had done the impossible and rallied every Khalasar to her side through awe. Now, she assured their loyalty and devotion through inspiration. They would follow her into hell itself if she asked them to. In a way, she was.

Olene, however, was still troubled. Though she was loyal to Daenerys, she had sworn to avenge Kovarro and their unborn child. As Drogon roared to the heavens, Olene only had vengeance on her mind.

* * *

 _ **Outside Myr…**_

Drakon neared the command tent. He stopped, halting the others with a gesture. He could hear voices inside, and chose to overhear them. It would be better for him not to be surprised by this silver-haired Westerosi.

"…are changing in Westeros," the first voice said. It was assertive, yet smooth. Aristocratic, but lacking in the callous arrogance of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. "The Blackfyres had their time, but now my family deserves the Iron Throne. We are in a better position to provide long-term stability to the realm. Drakon Blackfyre's children are far too inexperienced in war and politics; we are better at both."

"You make bold claims," Black Balaq said. "But you are nothing more than one upstart family among dozens."

"And yet, we have the gold to purchase your services. Once we claim Highgarden and its wealth, you and your men will live the rest of your lives never knowing want."

Drakon tensed at this. Highgarden? Did this mean they were fighting Edwyn? At the very least, they were causing strife in the Reach. Given the region's importance to the realm in terms of House Tyrell's alliance with House Blackfyre and its bountiful harvest. If any of that was jeopardized, control of Westeros could slip through his family's grasp.

"Drakon Blackfyre's oldest children control three of the kingdoms," Harry pointed out. "And his younger children will inherit the Iron Throne someday."

"His children are barely keeping the peace in their territories," the first voice replied smoothly. "And his wife is hated by the people. They could lose control at any moment, and where would that leave us? With Drakon dead, the Blackfyres have no real power. If you agree to work for my family, you will have written history and become ridiculously wealthy in the process."

Drakon gestured to his escort, who followed him as he rounded the corner and entered the tent.

Standing in front of Harry and the other commanders were three men. Two of them wore what appeared to be Lannister armour from the Westerlands, but it was painted blue instead of red. They were no more than common soldiers, guarding their master.

The third man was tall, some would say obscenely tall. He wore the same kind of Westerlands armour, but without a helmet. A flamberge was sheathed at his belt, nearly long enough to be a greatsword. His head was topped with a mop of silver hair, and from what Drakon could see, his skin was fair.

The tall man turned around at Drakon's entrance, and Drakon saw his bright purple eyes widen with shock.

"Drakon Blackfyre?" he asked, his tone incredulous. After a moment's silence, he and his men drew their swords.

Samwell and the two Kingsguard drew their swords, as well. Beneath his cloak, Drakon gripped the handle of his Valyrian Steel dagger. He was not strong enough to wield Blackfyre and Dark Sister yet, but he would fight if he had to. Nymeria growled, baring her fangs.

"That's enough!" Harry barked, interposing himself between the two groups. "So long as you are in my camp, you will not draw steel against one another, or I will have you removed. Is that understood?"

Neither Drakon nor the tall man said anything.

"Is that understood?"

Drakon eventually nodded to his escort, who reluctantly sheathed their swords. The three Westerosi did the same. He looked down at the black flame on the tall man's chest plate. "A black flame on a blue background. You must belong to House Darklight. You're not old enough to be Lord Alister, so you must be his son Gae."

"I am Gaeryn Darklyte, descendant of Saernys, daughter of Aegon, the Fourth of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men."

Drakon frowned. "Impossible. That line ended centuries ago."

"No. We went into hiding when your ancestors started stirring up trouble, but we survived, biding our time until we could finally claim our birthright."

"And now you seek out the Golden Company."

Gae nodded. "Imagine my surprise when a dead man greeted me. When they said they had another offer, I thought they were haggling for a better price. Everyone knows the company keeps their contracts, so only someone with the direst need would try to sway them."

"Or someone with a claim to their services through blood," Drakon countered.

Gorys Edoryen stroked his pointed black beard. "This will certainly go down in the history books as the most notable bidding war the company's experienced."

"There won't be a bidding war," Drakon said. "When I departed Westeros, the Darklytes were not rebelling. Being as cautious as Gaeryn presents them, they most likely waited until after news of my supposed death to make their move, making their movement a few months old. Not enough time to have made much progress. They were never a particularly wealthy House, which means the gold they mean to pay you with now is everything they managed to scrape together at a moment's notice, leaving them with precious little resources. They have not taken Highgarden yet, which means my son still rules in the Reach, so they do not possess any of the Tyrell gold."

Gaeryn glared at him as he spoke, squeezing the handle of his flamberge.

"I, on the other hand, have all the gold necessary to pay you in full now. I an have fifty chests of gold here in an hour. My children still control the North, the Reach, and the Vale, while my wife still rules in King's Landing. House Blackfyre has never been stronger. My dynasty has never been stronger. I am the sure bet, whereas the Darklytes are a gamble you can ill afford to take."

"Your 'dynasty' is still young, Drakon Blackfyre," Gaeryn said. "Not too long ago, you yourself were nothing but an upstart. The Targaryens ruled Westeros for three centuries, and they were nearly extinguished in Robert's Rebellion. Fortunes in war change all the time." He turned to face Harry and the other commanders. "Siding with the Blackfyres may not be the sure thing."

The four leaders of the Golden Company shared a glance. Right now, they were weighing their options. Drakon needed to tip the scales in his favour.

"I can do so much more for you than hire you, as so many have done," he said, walking past Gaeryn and his bodyguards to face Harry directly. "Right now, I am king. My word is law in Westeros. Samwell."

The stocky man joined him, handing him a roll of parchment.

"This is a decree I wrote before coming here. It gives every single member of the company a royal pardon. Most of you are exiles, having been banished by this king or that lord for one of hundreds of petty conflicts and schemes. With this, you can not only join me as hired Sellswords, but return to your rightful home."

Lysono Maar narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "And what would you have us do? Disband? Make the company no more than a memory and become swineherds and farmers?"

Drakon shook his head. "Quite the opposite. I am giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. For too long, we have been bound by a broken system where armies are mostly untrained farmers led by individual lords. I intend to remake Westeros, to forge it into more than a collection of squabbling kingdoms. For that to happen, I need a real army. A professional, standing army of trained soldiers loyal to the king and the country, not just this lord or that lord. With the soldiers of the realm having your legendary discipline and training, there is no end to what we could accomplish."

The four men were stunned silent. They had been Sellswords for so long that the idea of a client hiring them in perpetuity for such a purpose was inconceivable.

Drakon's captivity at the hands of the Dothraki had changed him. Ever since he regained his freedom, he felt…purer, as if cleansed by a fire that burned away his past impurities. Where before the future was forever clouded and uncertain, now he saw it clearly. The Targaryens had changed the course of history when Aegon and his sisters conquered Westeros, but they became stagnant and fell prey to corruption. Drakon would follow in Aegon's footsteps and carve a new reality into the world.

Harry and the others quietly debated for several minutes. Their decision would forever alter the fate of their company and the Seven Kingdoms. Drakon desperately wished to avoid spilling the blood of his family's ancestral army, but he would have to if they chose to side with the Darklytes. The fact that a fellow Targaryen bloodline from one of Aegon IV's Great Bastards had eluded him was troubling; such a family was not to be underestimated.

Yet another obstacle he would have to overcome.

Eventually, Harry, Black Balaq, Gorys Edoryen, and Lysono Maar turned to face Drakon and Gaeryn. Harry took a step forward and said "You've both given us very tempting offers. After some deliberation, however, we have chosen to accept a contract with…"

Drakon and Gaeryn shared a glance, neither sure whether to celebrate or curse just yet.

"Drakon Blackfyre."

Drakon's lips curled in a wide, satisfied smile. At last, the company created to serve his family was back in control of his family. His father may have lost it, but he had regained it.

He turned to look at Gaeryn Darklyte, who clicked his tongue. "Well played, Blackfyre. We'll meet again. That I promise you. No Fire Without Shadow."

"Blood and Fire," Drakon said, countering his enemy's motto with his own.

Gaeryn turned on his heel and walked out of the tent, his bodyguards at his side. He and the rest of his family would have to be dealt with when Drakon returned to Westeros. But that was a matter for another day. For now, there was one more thing he required.

An hour after drafting a contract, Harry and the rest of the company stood assembled before Drakon. 10,000 soldiers in gilded armour, their war elephants towering over them, stood in the evening light. Harry stood at their head, and he and the entirety of the Golden Company knelt before him. Rhaegon and Maelion were perched behind Drakon, their wings folded against their backs.

"We men of the Golden Company hereby pledge ourselves to your service. From this day until the end of our days, we will serve Drakon Blackfyre, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Father to Dragons, and Heir to Maelys, and his descendants."

"Long may he reign!" the company cried.

Rhaegon and Maelion roared to the heavens, signaling the undeniable strength of House Blackfyre.

* * *

 **Whew, another long chapter! This one took a lot of effort, but it was worth it.**

 **I want to be upfront and say that Aegon VI/Young Griff will not be a part of this story. My apologies to those of you who were looking forward to that! Aegon's presence would completely upend the story dynamic, and I'd probably include him in a different story with an OC not of Targaryen/Blackfyre descent, ie Stannis or another character from a Great House. The show seems to be merging Aegon with Jon, so that's the route I'm going to take.**

 **I bet you weren't expecting to see the Baratheon Bastard again, eh? Well, I felt so bad about how shit his life was (mostly because that's how his character arc goes in GoT: Ascent) that I decided to bring him back and make him Benjen's sidekick.**

 **We finally meet the Golden Company! I hope I did a good job portraying them here. This chapter was a chance for Drakon to get a lot of closure. I couldn't resist having him see his father's (double) skull. The Golden Company was where his life began, and now it's where his life is reborn. He's got a vision for the future, and he'll accomplish more than his father ever did (granted, he's done that already, but the idea still applies).**

 **The notion of a permanent standing army is a callback to Joffrey's idea of a Royal Army in Season 1. The little shit was juvenile and idiotic most of the time, but he had some surprisingly shrewd observations. The feudal military system has many, many drawbacks, as GoT (and history) amply demonstrates. A permanent, standing army is a far superior force because it's composed of fulltime soldiers as opposed to farmers given a spear and armour and told to fight. In our world, the Romans had a professional army millennia before Medieval Europe, and while such a thing is wildly expensive, it's a better alternative in a war.**

 **I think that turning Westeros' levies into a standing army would only be possible if the king has absolute control over the nobility. After all, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would feel threatened if the king tried to create an army loyal only to him. Joffrey could never have been that person, but Drakon could, since he's a strong ruler with Dragons and his children control three of the most powerful kingdoms. The rest (apart from those in rebellion) are led by lords whom he either rewarded handsomely for loyalty or aided in righting grievous wrongs (such as Blackfish and Edmure in regards to the Freys).**

 **If any of this feels unrealistic, please let me know! I am no expert on medieval history or military theory.**

 **Please review/favourite! Only one week until Season 8 starts! Thank the gods!**


	34. Chaos is a Ladder

_**The Red Keep…**_

Rona drew her legs close, holding them against her chest. Her chains clattered from the movement, echoing in the darkness. Men had been known to die of thirst or starvation in the Black Cells, if their sanity did not shatter before then. The empty blackness reminded her of her childhood in the Reach, living in alleys and gutters, living off what she could steal or…exchange for services.

Rona Grey had truly been born the day she and a noble bastard named Jocelyn Flowers struck out on their own, forging new lives and a lasting friendship. Before that, she had been no better than an animal, surviving at whatever the cost.

In the midst of the void, surrounded by the misery of her own thoughts, Rona lamented the total destructive power of time.

The promise of a brighter future was often ruined by rotten future generations, the beauty of spring and summer gave way to the cold desolation of winter, and the happiness of a life given meaning crumbled into ash. From the moment she had met Drakon Blackfyre, introducing him to her best friend and helping raise their children, Rona had known purpose and happiness. Now, both her friends were dead, their children were beset by enemies on all sides, and the legacy she had worked so hard to maintain was being poisoned by one foreign bitch.

She had no idea how long she was in the Black Cell. Days, weeks, it all blended together. When the cell door finally creaked open, preceded by the hopeful jangling of keys, Rona shielded her eyes with her hands. Candlelight was far too bright for her eyes.

She heard footsteps belonging to at least three individuals. "Stand up, love," Ser Bronn said. Rona struggled to her feet, the hard, wet stone scratching her hands as her legs wobbled from disuse. As the other two individuals unchained her from the post, Ser Bronn said "She wants to see you."

Rona fell to her knees after the first few steps. The guards had to hoist her to her feet by the armpits, half-dragging her out. They ascended from the bowels of the Red Keep, moving from dimly lit dungeons to brightly lid hallways where servants and guards and lords stopped to gawk at the disgraced Master of Whisperers.

Eventually, they entered the Tower of the Hand. At the head of the Small Council table sat Visenya, with everyone else absent. The guards left Rona standing in front of the table, and they and Ser Bronn close the doors behind them.

Rona glanced at the doors, then looked at Visenya. "This isn't the Throne Room; even if you dismissed everyone, you couldn't be sure someone was not listening. And you don't have any guards here because you can't be sure they can be trusted with what we know. A trial is out of the question, which is why we are here. Alone."

Visenya swept her silver hair behind her left ear, her purple eyes piercing. "The only people who matter in this world are myself, my husband, and our children."

Rona scoffed. "Husband."

The pregnant woman's eyes narrowed. "I wanted to give you the chance to confess. Your betrayal of my family runs deep, and I know my husband would have heard your reasons before executing you."

"My reasons are the same as they have always been: I am loyal to my friend and my king. It was that loyalty that caused me to act against you."

"Then why did you betray our family?" Visenya asked.

"The only betrayal was yours," Rona replied, glaring at her. "Jocelyn was my best friend. We'd known each other since we were children. After Jayne and Edric and Edwyn were born, I helped raise them. I love them as if they were my own. But then she died. When you and I met in this city years ago, I thought that you could help Drakon recover. Family was always most important to him, and having a sister would have been wonderful. But then he returned from the Whispers, with you at his side. I have lied, stolen, murdered, and arranged for all that and much worse, but a brother and a sister…that is unholy!"

"Drakon and I were always meant for each other. We belonged together. We were forging the greatest dynasty this world has ever seen."

Rona leaned against the nearest chair. "You are nothing but poison! Drakon was a good man, an honourable man who suffered greatly. He wanted to avenge the deaths of his brother's family and aid Daenerys Targaryen. Until you came along. You twisted his mind when he still grieved, seduced him when he was vulnerable and convinced him to become something he was not, something he never wanted to be."

Visenya stood, and Rona keenly remembered that all her weapons had been confiscated. "If you hated me so much, why did you wait so long to act against me?"

"At first, I kept my silence because Drakon asked me to. And I didn't want his children to be caught in the middle. Time passed, they married and left the capital, and when Drakon left to rescue Edwyn from Daenerys Targaryen, I knew I had to remove you from power. I had to get you away from my friend. Discrediting you through rumour and misinformation seemed the cleanest solution."

"And in so doing, you unleashed the High Sparrow and his 'Faith Militant'. How do you think my husband would have reacted if he knew his trusted advisor plunged his city into anarchy? You say that I corrupted him, but you did far more damage than you think I did."

Rona threw the chair to the floor, her nostrils flared as her heart pounded in her chest. "I was trying to save a man I've known half my life. Not long after you wormed your way into his confidence and his bed, my birds sang very interesting songs. Songs about you. You sold the book on Dragon lore to Lady Buckwell, back when you were known as the Wyvern, and knowledge from that book led her to steal Drakon's Dragon eggs. While he was away, you snuck into Dragon's Rest and poisoned Jocelyn. You murdered my best friend and her unborn twins! All so you could fuck your own brother and become queen!"

"Drakon always had a great destiny waiting for him. For both of us. He was never going to achieve that destiny so long as he was married to that whore from the Reach." Rona growled at the insult to Jocelyn, but before she could do anything, Visenya called "Guards!"

The doors opened, and two Blackfyre guards came to restrain Rona.

"Take her back to her cell," the silver-haired woman commanded. To Rona, she said "Before I have you executed tomorrow, you will confess that the malicious rumours about myself and the king are false, and you will denounce the High Sparrow as a traitor to the crown who only acted through your bidding. You will sing, just like your birds, one way or another."

Rona tried to slip the guards' grasp and attack Visenya, but they were too strong. One of them savagely punched her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her. They proceeded to drag her through the Red Keep, back to her own Black Cell. Once she was chained, they left and sealed it shut.

Sitting up, Rona coughed. She had failed to avenge the murder of Jocelyn, and she had failed to maintain Drakon's legacy. After a lifetime of working in the shadows, she was about to be consumed by them.

"It's tragic, really, seeing you like this," a familiar voice said.

Rona's eyes shot open, and she looked this way and that in search of the voice's owner. It was no use, as the cell was too dark. "What are you doing here, Simon?" she asked.

The grubby Master of Coin replied "I'm here to say goodbye. My work here is done, and I have places to be."

Work done…

"What work? What do you mean?"

"How do you think that Blackfyre cunt discovered your plot? She tortured it out of a guard I arranged for the High Sparrow to use in her inquest. A guard who you paid to be silent about good King Drakon fucking his sister."

Rona's eyes widened. "You…you were betraying me from the start! I never wanted the Sparrows involved, but you paying to arm them—"

"Sparked the flames of conflict in this fucking shit-pile of a city," Simon finished. "I knew that the Blackfyre bitch would retaliate, which would only make the situation more volatile. Really, I should be thanking you; without you providing the opportunity, my plans would have taken me much longer to enact."

Rona struggled against her chains. "We paid you, monster! We rewarded you handsomely for your service."

"Aye, you did," Simon agreed. He sounded like he was to her left. "But my new clients paid me a lot more. They wanted King's Landing embroiled in conflict, and now it is. The city's ripe for their taking."

"The king's children will not stand for this! They'll have your head, Simon, I promise you!"

Something struck her in the face, and she grunted, feeling a lance of pain that pulsed through her eyes and nose. Rona felt something hard in her mouth, likely a tooth, and spat it out, along with some blood. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled it back, eliciting a pained cry. Simon stood over her. In the darkness, Rona saw that he held a jar containing a glowing green substance.

She knew, in that moment, that it was too late.

"The Darklytes send their regards," Simon said, pouring the liquid into her mouth.

Rona screamed in absolute agony, but the Wildfire melted her throat in seconds. Her teeth blackened and cracked, while her guts erupted as the substance burned her from the inside. Rona was able to remain conscious through the ordeal as her skin burst and bled from a hundred boils. Wildfire leaked from every orifice, causing her eyes to burst and liquefy and her brains to pour from her ears.

Rona collapsed onto the floor of the cell, her hands slipping free of her shackles as the partially melted skin tore free with a wet squelch. Simon tossed the empty jar aside, then left the Black Cell through the well-hidden side passage that led to a tunnel. He sealed it behind him, leaving no trace of his presence.

* * *

Visenya stared out her window at the city below. King's Landing was consumed by riots, as it had for weeks now. The Sparrows and the Goldcloaks roamed the streets, arresting or murdering anyone who got in their way, while the people were ready to tear the city apart at a moment's notice. It was only a matter of time until they decided to storm the Red Keep, taking their collective frustrations out on her.

Visenya touched her swollen belly. Her third child was almost ready to enter the world, and she would not have it born in such a squalid, chaotic cesspool like King's Landing. A city could fall, so long as the royal family lived on.

"Wildfire. That is how she died?" Visenya asked, turning to face Ser Harras.

"Yes, Your Grace. From the jar we found near her corpse. Wisdom Hallyne confirms it; apparently, it was stolen from his stores two days ago."

Visenya nodded. Someone stole the pleasure of killing Rona from her, but there was no way to prove it.

"How would you like us to dispose of the body?" the Kingsguard asked.

"Hang her above the main gate of the Red Keep. Let her be an example of what happens to traitors."

"Yes, Your Grace," he said, bowing.

"Ser Harras? Have a ship prepared at the docks at once. I want to set sail before the day is done. Have the Sand Snakes meet us there."

Once her belongings were packed, Visenya and her handmaidens, two of which held Daemon and Rhaenyra, left the royal chambers. They were escorted by Ser Harras, Ser Benedict, Ser Eustace, and Ser Balon. Visenya did her best to hurry, given her condition; traitors and assassins could be lurking around every corner. She and her children just needed to get out of the city as fast as possible.

A messenger approached as they neared the stables. Ser Harras and Ser Eustace drew their swords halfway, and the man stopped. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but Lady Olenna has called a meeting of the Small Council."

Visenya scoffed. "Tell Lady Olenna that the safety of my children takes precedence over trifling political matters." She resumed walking, and the Kingsguard shoved the messenger aside. They mounted horses and rode through the side streets of King's Landing. Luckily it was still early in the morning, so most of the commoners were in their beds. They soon arrived at the harbour, where the three Sand Snakes stood at the foot of a gangplank attached to a ship with Blackfyre sails.

After dismounting, Visenya ascended the gangplank and said "Tell the captain to set out at once. I cannot wait to be rid of the eternal stench."

"Where should we sail to, Your Grace?" one of her handmaidens asked.

"We can go to Dorne," Nymeria sand said. "Our uncle, Prince Doran, would be honoured to have you."

Visenya nodded. Remembering her brother's lessons on the Seven Kingdoms, she knew Dorne was suitably far from King's Landing and the chaos in the west. "Very well. We sail for the Water Gardens."

The Sand Snakes and most of her handmaidens dispersed, leaving Visenya with the Kingsguard and the handmaidens holding her children. She took Daemon into her arms, stroking his cheek. He slept peacefully, unaware of the many troubles that plagued his father's homeland. Within the span of a few minutes, the gangplank was pulled in and the ship left its dock. Visenya stared at the Red Keep as it slowly shrank in the distance. There was no enjoyment to be had here, not when her brother was absent from her life and her bed.

The Dragons would rule elsewhere.

* * *

 _ **The Wolfswood; Near the Long Lake…**_

Edric watched the flow of soldiers, Smallfolk, and livestock across the Kingsroad. The population of Last Hearth moved quickly; they, more than most in the North, understood the Wildling threat.

"I hope you're right about this," Smalljon said. He and Edric sat astride their horses off to the side of the road, observing the march. The big man had scowled the whole way.

"If I'm wrong, you can tell my corpse 'I told you so'," Edric replied. "Odds are I'll be dead before this is all over. Everyone says Jon Snow's the greatest swordsman in the North, he's Ned Stark's last surviving son, and the Wildlings are vicious cunts, according to you."

"Aye, it'll be a challenge," Smalljon said. "But I'm one of the toughest fuckers in the North, you're married to Ned Stark's last trueborn child, and you've got strong Northern Houses supporting you. You're honourable, in your own way, and you're trying to keep the North safe. These aren't your people, and we're suspicious of Southerners, but you decided to take up arms to protect us. That means something."

Edric looked at Smalljon, his brow furrowed in surprise. "That might be the nicest thing you've said to me since we met."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," Smalljon said. He then muttered "Cunt."

Unable to help himself, Edric started laughing. The Lord of Last Hearth was one of the gruffest, most unpleasant men he had ever dealt with, but the young Blackfyre found his pure honesty…refreshing. Unlike people south of the Neck, Northerners were an honest, proud people. Apart from the Boltons, they never had the stomach for betrayal or excessive politicking. Edric felt a small measure of pride at earning even a sliver of Smalljon's respect.

A wagon passed them by, flanked by eight Umber men. Sitting in the back was a young boy, no older than ten. He looked at Smalljon and smiled.

"Your son?" Edric asked.

"Aye. Ned. I named him after Lord Eddard, one of the best men I ever knew. He was a good man, an honourable man. What the Lannisters did to him and his family…If nothing else, you and your father avenged his murder. That's not something people will forget. The North remembers."

"So I've heard." Edric fell silent, staring at the ground. Seeing Ned Umber made him think of his own future that awaited him at Winterfell.

"You thinking about your child?"

Edric nodded. "Am I ready to be a father? With all that's going on in the North, how can I properly care for the baby? My father's dead; I can't ask him what it was like when we were children."

Smalljon replied "None of us are ready to be a parent. We fight wars, kill men, rule our lands from our castles, but none of us know what it's like until it happens. There's no special guide to showing them right from wrong; you try to be an example to them, raise them to be good and strong and honourable. At the end of the day, all you can do is what you think is best for them."

"I almost think—"

Edric was cut off as a horn rang nearby. He straightened, his hand gripping his sword handle as he scanned the surroundings. The end of the column was near, but they were still only halfway to Winterfell. Edric looked down the Kingsroad; the last of the wagons and people were in sight, and he also saw the cause of the distress.

One of Jon Snow's Giants stomped down on an Umber soldier, while dozens of Wildlings swarmed from the sides. A number of Manderly horsemen charged down the road as well.

"Everyone, move!" Edric bellowed, drawing Wolf's Howl. "Soldiers, to me!"

The people at the rear started screaming and ran down the road, desperately trying to escape the imminent threat. "Get to safety!" Smalljon cried, drawing his sword. Mounted and foot soldiers hurried to their position, lances and swords in hand. "Let's kill these fuckers!"

Edric heard someone gurgle, and turned to see a Whitehill soldier standing close by with an arrow in his throat.

"They're in the trees!" he shouted. His horse reared back as the battle began, just barely avoiding an arrow. He turned the beast to face the surrounding forest as a bald Wildling, with a face covered by ritual scars, emerged, beheading another Whitehill soldier with a large axe. He saw Edric, then belted a war howl as he charged.

Edric started slashing and stabbing with his sword. Luckily the Wildling was to his right, in his primary field of vision. His lessons with Masyn Tanner were well-spent, as he was holding his own better than he expected. The Wildling was vicious, grunting and growling like an animal. Edric grunted as well, tapping into his inner reservoir of rage and strength.

As the Wildling made a wild swing, Edric stabbed him in the throat, killing him.

A desperate battle erupted as the Umber and Whitehill soldiers formed a defensive barrier to protect the fleeing Smallfolk. Edric saw Smalljon behead a Manderly knight with a single swing. He then said "You killed a Thenn! That's worth a mug of ale."

Edric smirked, his heart pounding. His men were holding their own against the footsoldiers, and reinforcements from further up the column were steadily pouring in. The biggest problem was the Giant, which tore through armoured soldiers like they were straw dolls. It picked up a Whitehill man-at-arms and tore him in half with contemptuous ease.

That sight would haunt Edric for a long time.

"Archers!" he cried. "Focus on the Giant!"

The gathered archers knocked their arrows, then loosed. The problem was immediate: between its large size, and the thick furs it wore, the Giant was barely affected by the steady stream of arrows. It fought as if it felt nothing.

Edric killed another Wildling, then ordered "Go for the eyes! The eyes!"

The archers focused their shots, and one of them got lucky. An arrow pierced the Giant's left eye, and it roared in pain, thrashing back and forth. It charged towards the archers and picked one up, crushing his chest like a grape. Before it could do anything else, another arrow pierced its right eye, blinding it.

"You men!" Edric said, pointing his sword at a group of Umber pikemen. "Move to the right. Make a lot of noise, get its attention!"

They nodded, raising their weapons and hurrying to the far right, just behind the defensive line. Once in position, they lowered their pikes and started shouting while banging their shields on the road. The Giant turned to face the noise, a menacing growl emanating from its throat. It swiped its hands at them, but only struck the pike tips.

Gripping his sword tight, Edric kicked his horse into action. Riding across the cobblestones, Edric slashed the Giant's legs. The Valyrian Steel bit deep, and the hairy thing cried out as it fell to its knees. Smalljon fought nearby, and his deep voice drew the Giant's attention. It swiped a hand at him, knocking his horse to the ground. The Umber pikemen advanced, stabbing at the Giant's arm in defense of their lord.

While it focused on them, Edric dismounted and ran under its head.

With a roar, he drove his sword into the Giant's neck at an angle. He then pulled it as he stepped forward, carving a wide gash. Blood gushed from the wound in buckets, covering the cobblestones in a deep shade of scarlet. Much of it spilled over Edric's shoulders and right arm; it felt hot to the touch, like boiling pitch. Within seconds, the Giant collapsed, and Edric fell onto his ass from the impact.

The Wildlings seemed to lose heart at the sight of their Giant's death. The Umber and Whitehill men, inspired by the sight, drove forward. In minutes, the enemy force scattered. Those Wildlings and Manderly knights left alive retreated back north. Edric's men cheered, having successfully protected their people and necessary supplies and livestock.

Edric got to his feet, his breathing heavy. Wolf's Howl was still imbedded in the Giant's throat, and, planting a foot on its shoulder, Edric wrenched his sword free. The entire length of the blade was covered in blood, which he promptly wiped on his sleeve before sheathing it. The soldiers all gathered around the massive corpse, staring in awe. Even in the North, where they believed in things Southerners dismissed as legend, no one had ever seen a Giant in centuries. Edric felt their gazes centre on him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Smalljon walked over to him, ignoring the two arrows in his arm. "Fuck me," he said breathlessly. "And here I thought you were a skinny, worthless prick."

"To be honest, it was all a blur," Edric said, looking at his hands. He stank of blood, and much of his upper torso was covered in it. He felt like he was going to be sick, but he managed to keep his breakfast down.

Snorting, Smalljon took his red arm and held it high. "Hail Edric One-Eye, the Giantslayer!" he cried. The soldiers raised their weapons, shouting and cheering. Edric could not think of what to say. These were the same people who treated him with nothing but distrust because he was not of the North; to them, he was just a foreign boy sent to rule over them. Now, they were chanting his name and treating him like a hero.

Once the excitement wore off, Smalljon asked "What should we do with the bodies?"

Edric scanned the battlefield, considering his options. "We don't have time to bury them, and leaving them here would just attract predators that might follow us. Pile them on the Giant and burn them."

He and his men proceeded to gather all the corpses and drag them to where the Giant was stretched along the road. A pool of blood had gathered around its head that was fresh enough to reflect everyone's faces, which many found unsettling. Once every corpse was in place, they set them alight with torches.

As he stood there, watching the pile of bodies burning, Edric saw something in the flames. He thought it was just a trick from his battle-weary mind, but then he saw it again: an endless, frozen wasteland where no human dwelled. Across the white expanse walked a horde, an undead army that shambled over the snow. Their blue eyes shone in the darkness. Amongst the army of corpses rode several figures, sitting regally astride half-rotted horses with sections of bone open through grizzly wounds. The riders were pale as the deepest snow, with tongues of cold radiating from their bodies. Their bright blue eyes seemed to stare into Edric's soul, promising only one thing.

Death.

He felt his breath catch in his throat, and an unearthly chill slithered up his spine.

"Something wrong?" Smalljon asked.

"Yeah. I'm starting to think that Jon Snow may have been right about what's waiting for us Beyond the Wall."

An hour later, Edric rode at the front of the column. Ludd Whitehill rode beside him, having insisted on being in the front the whole way down from Last Hearth. They would reach Winterfell before long, and he could not wait to hold his wife in his arms again. However, he noticed a rider hurrying down the road towards him. He held up a hand, and Smalljon called for the column to stop.

The rider came closer, and Edric recognized one of Katryna's scouts.

"M'lord!" the man cried. "M'lord!"

"What is it?"

The rider pulled on the reins of his mount, slowing it down, then stopped beside him. "Katryna shot down a raven that flew from Winterfell, m'lord. She sent me to deliver the message it carried." He handed Edric a scroll.

The grey wax seal bore a Direwolf.

Edric felt a cold fist grip his heart as he broke the seal and opened the letter.

 _Jon,_

 _I hope this letter finds its way to you before we go too far. You are my brother, I do not care if we have different mothers. I was wrong to ignore you when we were children, and I am sorry. I love you. Edric is my husband, and I love him. After all the miseries I endured since we first left home all those years ago, he has been one of the few joys in my life._

 _We both know this war is a mistake. I know Edric feels the same. We have to find a way to make peace, before one of you kills the other. I refuse to lose any more of my family. If you agree, I'll convince Edric to stand his armies down so you both can make a truce._

 _Sansa_

Edric breathed a heavy sigh. His wife tried to go behind his back. His initial reaction was betrayal, wondering how she could have done this to him.

But when he thought about it, it made perfect sense. He had been making an ass of himself lately, grandstanding and making threats because a lord was supposed to be strong and, in his mind, a strong lord destroyed anyone who opposed him. But Jon was Sansa's brother, her last surviving sibling. Edric had been willing to go to war, to kill thousands, just so he could hold onto the woman he loved.

And if the vision he saw in the flames was real…

He was starting to believe that Jon Snow told the truth. If there was a threat Beyond the Wall, a threat no one could possibly comprehend, then he had saved the Wildlings from a horrible fate. If that was true, Edric would have been murdering refugees. Sansa was right; this war had to end.

"Well, what's it say?" Smalljon asked.

"Enough," Edric replied. He dismounted his horse and called "I need a quill, inkwell, and fresh wax!"

On the back of a wagon, he dipped a quill in ink and wrote an additional sentence in the letter, doing his best to copy his wife's handwriting.

 _Meet me by the western shore of the Long Lake tomorrow at mid-day so we can discuss terms I can give to Edric._

Once that was done, he removed the broken seal and, folding the letter, poured grey wax onto the fold. The signet ring Edric wore was in the shape of a Direwolf; luckily, the sigil of his House was the same as that of House Stark, the only difference being Dragon wings on banners. He pressed the ring into the wax, sealing the letter.

Turning to the scout who delivered it to him, he said "Take this and ride for Last Hearth. Jon Snow and his men should have moved in by now." Smalljon grumbled at those words. "Give this to Jon Snow. Say that you were sent by Lady Sansa."

The scout took the letter, his face creased with worry.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"I need to hear you say it."

"Lady Sansa sent me. I have a letter for Jon Snow."

Edric nodded. "Good. If you leave now, you should get there by nightfall." The scout rode off, and he turned to look at the two lords by his side. "Smalljon, take your people to Winterfell and get them settled."

"You'll need me for whatever you're planning," the big man said.

"Not this time. You need to let Maester Pyne take a look at your wounds." Edric sighed, his next words voiced through clenched teeth. "Ludd, you'll come with me to the Long Lake."

"The fuck I will!" the fat lord growled. "You're not involving me in whatever half-cocked scheme you're cooking up, boy! I'll not—"

Edric smashed his head into Ludd's, hearing a satisfying _crack_. Ludd cried out in pain, holding his nose as he fell to his knees. Blood trickled between his fingers as he glared up at Edric.

"I just killed a Giant, old man. A fucking Giant. Next to it, you're nothing but a fat, whiny insect I'm inclined to step on to get some quiet. You're going to clean yourself up, get back on your horse, and come with me to the Long Lake. If I hear another word out of you before morning, I'll take your head myself."

Ludd wisely said nothing. He stood, glaring at Edric the whole time, then stalked off to his horse. He angrily whispered something to one of his men, likely some insult against his young liege lord, then mounted.

While the column continued onto Winterfell, Edric and Ludd turned around and rode back North.

* * *

 _ **The Eyrie…**_

Jayne realized that treason was a disease.

If one did not root it out, it spread like the pox, corrupting everything it touched. Those that resisted this infection would die or be threatened by some other malady. Those that embraced the infection became a centre of corruption, standing over the corpses of the men and women who refused it. The Mad King Aerys had, in his insanity, corrupted the entire realm, all the while thinking he spread purification. Robert Baratheon let his kingdoms rot from within, not caring in the slightest. The Lannisters had used it as a weapon, infecting their allies and killing their enemies, yet had only caused the realm to collapse from within.

Jayne's father had burned away that corruption. With Blood and Fire, he had cleansed the traitors and oathbreakers, renewing the realm and ensuring prosperity. Now, with the threat of new corruption in her own realm, she knew it was her duty to cleanse it herself.

After extracting the information she needed from the Kettleblack family, Jayne had informed her husband. Together, they rallied the Eyrie guardsmen and searched every inch of the castle. Most of the original conspirators were dead or neutralized, but enough remained to cause problems. They needed to wipe out the conspiracy, lest it spread to the rest of the Vale.

The realm needed stability, not another civil war.

Jayne watched her House's guards corner Lothor Brune. The knight had his back against the wall, eight swords pointed at him. He swung wildly, creating a tense standoff.

"It is pointless to resist, Ser," Andar said, a hand on his own weapon.

"I won't let you put me in a Sky Cell!" Lothor growled. "I'll not let that Blackfyre bitch take my life!"

Jayne, standing beside her husband, sneered. In a way, she was flattered that this conspiracy between notable knights of the Vale had been created specifically out of hatred for her. That did not prevent her from desiring the man's painful execution. A Sky Cell or the Moon Door was too quick, too good for him. No, perhaps she should use poison. The Strangler seemed an appropriate candidate.

One of the guards advanced, clashing swords with Lothor. The knight parried his attacks, then sliced him in the leg and kicked him away.

"We know you and your compatriots were formerly paid by Petyr Baelish," Andar said. "When Baelish died, you lost your income. You could not have planned to oust my family without support, and support requires gold; who is your new master?"

"You'll get nothing out of me!" Lothor spat. He shouted, stepping towards the remaining guardsmen. Two of them blocked his sword, while a third shoved him back towards the wall with a shoulder. Lothor stood near an open window, and when he tried to reach it, one of the guards slashed him in the back of his calf. The knight cried out, falling to the floor as his leg could no longer support him.

Andar stepped over to him, the guards parting to let him through. Lothor tried to attack, but Jayne's husband kicked the sword from his hand. He then gripped Lothor by the collar and hoisted him up. "Tell us what we want to know, or not. It does not matter. What do you think, my lady? Moon Door, or hanging?"

Jayne thought about it. "Neither. I say have him chained inside a Sky Cell, with food and water just out of reach. Let him die a hundred days as he ruminates the folly of moving against our family."

Andar nodded, then shoved Lothor into the arms of two guards. Just as they dragged him away, another guard came hurrying towards them from down the hall.

"My lord! My lord!"

"What is it?" Andar asked.

"Chaos, at the tourney grounds below!" the guard replied, out of breath. He took a moment to breathe deep, then added "Someone set fire to the tourney pavilion. After that, mass fighting broke out, and now many thousands of men are gathering. We think they mean to lay siege to the Eyrie!"

"What?!" Andar said, his voice filled with rage.

"Go, take care of it," Jayne told him. When he looked at her, she kissed him on the lips, then held his chin. "Do whatever you must. Destroy all our enemies."

He nodded, then asked "What will you do?"

"I will back to our chambers and stay with Aegor. My guards will keep me safe. Go!"

"You men, with me!" Andar bellowed, running off with the guards.

Jayne knew he would succeed. He was his father's son, a proven warrior and commander. The rebellion the conspirators had apparently stirred up was still fresh, and therefore vulnerable. A babe in its crib.

The thought made Jayne think of her son, and she wasted no time hurrying back to the lord's chambers. The castle was a hive of activity, with guards and servants passing to and fro in the midst of this new chaos. A passing guard chose to follow her, remaining close with his sword in hand to deal with any threat.

Jayne knew something was wrong when she saw no guards standing by her door. Normally, at least two men were stationed there, with Carellen and five more men inside with her son.

The worst possible scenarios raced through her mind, each more horrifying than the last.

The door was cracked open, proving her suspicions. Her heart began to thunder in her breast, and a mixture of pure terror and seething rage boiled within her. The guard entered first, cautiously moving with his fingers tightly gripping his sword handle. The bodies of the guards were strewn across the floor, along with that of Carellen Stokeworth, her Sworn Shield. Jayne's breathing quickened as a cold fist squeezed her heart, and it stopped beating when she saw who was on her bed.

Adrya, her throat slit, atop blood-stained sheets.

Jayne screamed, tearing her vocal chords as the tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She was convinced her scream carried through the Eyrie, but that did not matter. She cared for Adrya, so much; the handmaiden had comforted her through painful days, helping her forget her troubles by sharing her bed. Now, she was gone. Jayne had not had the chance to say goodbye to such a dear companion.

"She did not beg, if it pleases you."

Jayne's grief hardened into wrath as she turned to look at the man who just spoke.

Ser Lyn Corbray, the man who led the conspiracy against her and her family, the man who murdered Adrya and Carellen Stokeworth, sat next to her son's crib. His hands, armour, and face were covered in blood, but he appeared as calm as a flower in a fresh breeze. Lyn's eyes shone with a psychotic glee as his lips curled in an arrogant smirk. He held a finger to his lips, shushing them as he looked down at Jayne's sleeping son.

"Kill him!" Jayne hissed. Her vision filled with crimson, and all that she could imagine in that moment was holding Aegor in her arms while standing over Lyn's corpse.

The guard rushed forward, prepared to deliver a killing blow. Quick as a flash, Lyn drew a dagger and stabbed it through the guard's wrist, blocking his attack. He then drew his family's ancestral Valyrian Steel longsword, Lady Forlorn, and gutted his opponent.

Jayne heard the sound of footsteps and shouting from outside her chambers, but she suddenly found herself pressed against the blood-stained armour of Lyn Corbray, his dagger at her throat, as several guards rushed inside.

"Take one more step, and she dies!" he warned.

The guards halted.

"That's better," Lyn said, sounding satisfied. "If only you hadn't interfered, _my lady_. Things would have been so much simpler then."

"I was never going to let you murder my family!" Jayne angrily retorted.

He snorted in contempt. "Oh please. The Royces were upstarts who needed to learn their place, and you were an interloper. No matter. Between you and your son, I have more than enough leverage to walk out of this castle. Harrold and I will ensure the Vale is ruled by House Arryn once more, and then we will serve our true queen when she arrives to claim her throne."

Jayne, despite the fear and imminent danger, thought on what he was saying. House Arryn… "You're going to use Robin Arryn as your puppet," she surmised. As for 'true queen'… "You'll leverage your positions for rewards from Daenerys Targaryen. You're a fool if you're placing all your hopes on her. She is all the way in Essos, and my family and our allies will crush her."

"There is no stopping this, Lady Blackfyre," Lyn said, pressing his dagger ever so slightly harder against her throat. "I have waited too long and spent too many resources to achieve my goals. If you cooperate, I'll see to it that my men don't rape you every night. As for your son…"

"You'll never have my son!" Jayne screamed.

Aegor awoke at the sudden noise, and began wailing as his little arms flailed desperately for his mother.

"Now look what you've done!" Lyn hissed. He turned to look at Aegor and shouted "Be quiet!"

Jayne knew this was her chance. She remembered Rona's lessons about preparedness, reaching into her sleeve where she had a stiletto strapped to her forearm. With a savage cry, she drew it and drove it into Lyn's eye as she bit the hand holding the dagger. He screamed in agony, releasing his dagger and stumbling backwards. Now free of him, Jayne rushed to Aegor's crib, scooping him up in her arms and hurrying to the other side of the room.

Lyn covered his eye with his right hand. Blood seeped between his fingers, while his left hand fell limp by his side, an angry red bite mark around the base of his thumb.

Two guards stood in front of Jayne, while the rest charged the traitorous knight. Even wounded as he was, Lyn Corbray was still one of the greatest warriors in the Vale. The Valyrian Steel blade of his family sword cut into two guards in quick succession, killing them, before lopping the arm off a third. More fell, but there were simply too many, and they overpowered him, tackling him to the ground and prying Lady Forlorn from his useable hand.

"What should be done with him, my lady?" one of them asked as the rest hauled Lyn to his feet.

Jayne, clutching Aegor to her breast, looked back at Adrya's body. He needed to suffer, for this and for every slight against her family. Threatening her son was more than enough for a death sentence, but like Lothor, she knew he deserved a long and painful end.

"Cut off his hands, then apply fire to the stumps."

The guards instantly obeyed. One forced Lyn to his knees, one held his arms out, and another cut his hands off at the wrist with a single swing of a sword. They grabbed a nearby torch and pressed it to the bloody stumps, cauterizing the wounds and preventing the knight from bleeding out.

"Tie a rope around his chest, then hang him from the balcony."

Minutes later, Lyn Corbray was hanging from the balcony like a banner from a defeated House. He groaned and whimpered from his various injuries, unable to form coherent words.

Jayne, passing Aegor to a handmaiden who had come after hearing her scream, walked over to the balcony, looking down at her enemy. "I think this is a wonderful reward for you, Ser. With winter here, we will be moving the court to the Gates of the Moon. You will be here, all through the season. The Maesters are saying this will be the longest winter in living memory. Will you starve, or die of thirst before then? No matter; you will be long dead by the time we return. Farewell, Lyn Corbray."

Later, Jayne at beside Andar, who sat on the weirwood throne. She held Aegor in her arms, unwilling to part with him ever again.

Her lord husband's armour was spattered with dried blood from the fighting in the tourney grounds. He stared down at the Moon Door, his expression heavy. "Harrold Hardyng escaped, along with Robin Arryn."

Jayne looked at him, her heart cold as ice after the day's events. "How many men joined them?"

Andar sighed. "Many. Having Robin on his side gives Harrold legitimacy; there are still those who are still loyal to House Arryn. Houses Hunter and Redfort have thrown their lot in with them. Hundreds died below, but the traitors fled the Vale with a force of 5,000. They were last seen fleeing through the Bloody Gate."

Jayne nodded. "For too long the Knights of the Vale have sat and watched, safe behind their mountains and their gates. Even now, my brothers and our remaining allies are fighting to preserve my father's dream. We need to do our part."

"What do you suggest, wife?" Andar asked.

Staring her husband in the eyes, Jayne replied "Marshal what forces we can and march forth. We will hunt down the rest of the traitors and kill all who would oppose us. Our enemies will burn from the Black Dragons' fire."

Andar merely nodded.

* * *

 _ **Braavos…**_

Drakon allowed himself a small measure of pride. It was not everyday that someone managed to impress an officer of the Iron Bank of Braavos.

"I must say, I don't think the Iron Bank has ever had a debt of this magnitude repaid in a single installment," Tycho Nestoris said.

He was a thin man, balding, with a red beard and a gaze sharper than Valyrian Steel. Drakon stood beside him, Kingsguard flanking him, as his soldiers carried the chests of gold and treasure into the vast, cavernous chamber. The servants of the bank then spirited them away to one of likely countless vaults.

"I always considered Tywin Lannister a very effective and efficient man, but you appear to be redefining those terms entirely."

Drakon gave him a tight smile. "Yes, he was. He was also the primary power in Westeros for decades, yet he did nothing to help the rising debt. If I can repay such a massive amount so quickly into my reign, imagine what I could do in five years. Or ten."

Tycho smirked. "You may be right. Only time will tell."

"Of course, my lord."

"I am not a lord, Your Grace. I am merely an instrument of this institution. Its wellbeing is a matter of arithmetic, not sentiment. And the current arithmetic is outstanding. Some of my associates are a bit disappointed; they've grown rather fond of your interest payments."

The last of the chests was finally handed off, and Drakon sat down in front of the large marble desk. Tycho took the centre high-backed seat, a genial smile on his face.

"I'm sure they were."

"Perhaps we could be of assistance with some current or future venture? Kings such as yourself often require gold to enact their grand designs."

"Perhaps. First, if I might ask a small favour?" Drakon asked.

"We are at your service, Your Grace."

"I have been away from home for a long time. Is there any news of Westeros? The state of things?"

Tycho straightened himself where he sat. "I'm afraid the Seven Kingdoms have erupted into a fresh bout of anarchy in your absence. Your son Edric is embroiled in civil war in the North, King's Landing is in the clutches of a group of fanatics who call themselves Sparrows, and it would seem another family of Targaryen descent has risen in open rebellion in the west."

Drakon balled his hand into a fist. Edric fighting a war? "What about my wife and my other children?"

"Your wife has fled the capital in the midst of severe rioting, along with your younger children. Your daughter is well, and she gave birth to a son from what I hear, though Lord Yohn Royce is dead, poisoned at a feast. A conspiracy has taken root, it would seem. Your son Edwyn is busy leading the armies of the Reach against this…House Darklyte."

"Yes, I know about House Darklyte. I didn't know how bad the rest of it was."

Tycho offered a sympathetic, if artificial, smile. "I suppose you intend to return to Westeros with all haste and re-establish order?"

Drakon nodded. "I have already engaged the services of the Golden Company towards that end."

"That caused quite a stir, I can tell you. It's not everyday that the company reneges on one contract to take up another."

Drakon looked him in the eyes. "I can be very persuasive."

"So I've heard," Tycho replied knowingly.

"I find myself in need of ships. The fleet I have with me is enough for the soldiers from the Stormlands, but not enough for the Golden Company. Given the recent goodwill I have…purchased, I was hoping to acquire a loan for the vessels I need."

Tycho's smile beamed brighter than the sun.

Ink was scratched onto parchment, hands shook, and a deal was made.

Afterwards, Drakon walked out of the Iron Bank's main office, into the city. Samwell waited for him, Nymeria at his side. "All is well, Your Grace?"

"It is," Drakon replied. "The crown's enormous debt is settled, and we now have a loan to borrow 100 ships to ferry the Golden Company across the Narrow Sea."

They started walking through the streets as they spoke. Despite the heavy crowds they encountered, their path was never barred due to Nymeria's presence. Direwolves were unfamiliar to southern Westerosi, and they were wholly alien to Braavosi. More than one person shrieked in fear upon seeing the massive white wolf with teeth as long as fingers.

"There is much to do when we get home," Drakon said. "Half the kingdoms are either in open rebellion or plotting against my family."

"We will beat them, Your Grace. We did it before."

"Samwell…there's something you should know. Your father is dead."

Samwell stopped, his breath hitching. Nymeria looked at him, understanding in her eyes. "Dead?" he asked incredulously. "I—how?"

"Poisoned at a feast."

"And my brother?"

"Still alive, as far as I know," Drakon replied. "Jayne gave birth not long ago; they have a son." When his friend said nothing, he added "I know you loved your father, despite your history. My father was a monster, and I still mourn his absence." He placed a hand on Samwell's shoulder and squeezed it. "As soon as we return to Westeros, I'll give you leave to return home and pay your respects."

"The Vale hasn't been home in many years, Your Grace," Samwell replied. "But I thank you, nonetheless."

Nymeria whimpered sympathetically, nudging her head into Samwell's hand. He ran a hand across her head, smiling at the Direwolf's non-verbal support. Drakon once again found himself amazed by their intelligence; despite knowing from experience that Dragons were remarkable creatures, Direwolves were no less impressive.

"Come, let's—"

Water splashed nearby.

Drakon looked in the direction of the sound. He surmised that something, or someone, had fallen into one of Braavos' countless canals. Nymeria sniffed the air, and she walked off in that same direction.

"Nymeria?" Samwell asked.

He and Drakon followed the Direwolf through a series of tight alleys, until they came to a set of stairs that descended into a small river that ran under a bridge. The water swayed from the recent splash, and Drakon noted a pool of blood. A second later, a small girl emerged, gasping for breath as she swam to the stairs. She only made it up a step before stopping.

Nymeria walked over to the girl, sniffing her. Drakon narrowed his eyes; the wolf almost seemed to know her. Given who it was, and the relative age of the girl…

"Arya Stark!" he said. The girl looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. Drakon crouched beside her, looking her over. "She's been stabbed," he noted, pointing to the blood gushing from between the fingers clenched over her gut. "Pick her up. We'll get her to a healer."

Samwell took her in his arms. She grunted, her breaths quick and shallow. Drakon turned, but paused, looking up at the bridge from which she must have fallen. The only person he saw was an old woman shambling across. Once she was out of view, he walked away from the river, intending to have a conversation with one of the few surviving Stark children.

* * *

 _ **The Wolfswood…**_

Rolfe crept through the woods, every movement measured and precise, as quietly as a Shadowcat. Forty years of Ranging Beyond the Wall gave him instincts few men, even fellow brothers of the Night's Watch, possessed. He could sneak up on any Wildling, any man or woman.

Now, he used his skills to follow Jon Snow.

A rider had come in the middle of the night, bringing a message from Jon's sister, Sansa. She apparently wanted to end the war, and asked him to come to the Long Lake to work out terms for peace. Rolfe doubted everything about the letter; its intent, the possibility of peace, and whether or not Sansa Stark actually sent it. He said as much to the bastard, who believed the truth of the words on the letter. According to him, Sansa would never try to trick him. So, a few hours after daybreak, Jon, along with Rodrik and Asher Forrester, departed Last Hearth and rode south, towards the Long Lake.

Rolfe, realizing what a terrible mistake the boy was making, took a horse and rode after them. He elected to keep his distance and follow with stealth; Jon took Ghost with him, and the Direwolf could sniff Rolfe out quite easily.

Having tied his horse deeper in the woods, Rolfe continued on foot. Despite the distance, his keen eyesight allowed him to keep sight of Jon and the Forrester brothers. The letter had instructed him to come to the western shore of the Long Lake, so it was only a matter of time until Sansa or someone else appeared.

After several minutes of walking, Jon and his companions came to a cliff overlooking the Long Lake, which was beginning to freeze over with the onset of winter. Rolfe saw two figures sitting in front of a fire, keeping warm. He could not figure out who they were, as the hoods of their thick cloaks were drawn. Hearing the approaching trio, the two figures stood and faced them, pulling down their hoods. One was Ludd Whitehill, the archenemy of the Forresters.

The other was Edric fucking Blackfyre!

Rolfe faltered, his jaw quivering with rage. Just like he suspected, the letter had been a trap, and the son of his son's killer was going to try to kill Jon. The veteran Ranger drew his axes and crept through the snow-laden bushes, approaching the Blackfyre shit from the side.

Jon and the Forrester brothers, after their initial shock, drew their swords. "A fucking trap!" Asher hissed, bending his knees in preparation for a fight.

"Please, wait!" Edric Blackfyre said, holding up his hands. "I just want to talk."

"Sansa didn't send the letter, did she?" Jon asked. Rolfe could hear the betrayal in his voice.

"She did. My people killed the raven carrying it, and I made one alteration."

"The location of this meeting," Jon surmised.

Rolfe stopped behind a tree. From here, he had a reasonable chance of killing Edric Blackfyre.

Rodrik glanced at Jon and Asher, then asked "Why shouldn't we just try to kill each other right now?"

"There's a fucking thought," Ludd Whitehill grumbled.

The elder Forrester pointed his sword at the fat lord. "I'm going to open you up from balls to neck for what you did to our mother!"

"The bitch had it coming."

Edric Blackfyre turned and backhanded his companion, eliciting a grunt and causing him to stumble. "One more word, and I'm throwing you off this cliff! Am I clear?"

Ludd Whitehill glared at him, but said no more.

"Jon," Edric said, looking back at the bastard. "I know deceiving you wasn't the best way to arrange a meeting, but I felt like I had no choice. Even if I did make an offer, none of the lords following you would have allowed you to leave. This was the only way."

"To do what?" Jon asked, lowering his sword. He was not considering a truce, was he?

"Make peace," Edric Blackfyre replied. "Look, I was a fucking idiot. I see that now. You had no plans to usurp my place, and I forced you into a corner. We can still end this war before it goes too far."

Asher looked at Jon and said "He's lying. His family are nothing but murderers, no better than the Mad King! Look at the fucking company they keep!"

"I'm not lying," Edric said, his voice low. "You never wanted this either, Jon. All you want is to protect your people. I want the same. For Sansa's sake, let's work out a deal. I'll promise pardons for all the lords who took up arms against me. I'll even let the Wildlings stay behind the Wall."

"Why would you do that?" Jon asked. "What changed your mind?"

Rolfe recognized the look in Edric Blackfyre's eyes. He had it himself on two occasions: when the Walkers attacked them at the Fist of the First Men, and when the Night King and his army had massacred the Wildlings at Hardhome. It was the look of a man who had seen death itself, and could not shake the chill from his bones.

"Because I've seen what's coming for us," Edric Blackfyre replied. "If they're as bad as you say, we need everyone working together to keep Westeros safe. If that means making peace with my enemies, then so be it."

Rolfe turned. Was that a twig snapping? He crouched low, keeping level with the bushes as he moved away from the others. Pressing himself against the trunk of a tree, he leaned to the side just enough to see shapes moving in the darkness. He knew they were men, soldiers judging by the brief glints he caught of their armour. One of them walked up to Rolfe's tree, bow in hand. Rolfe stood as still as a statue, and when the soldier was close enough, he buried an axe into the man's face, killing him.

Just as Rolfe pulled the axe from the soldier's skull, he heard Ludd Whitehill shout "Now!"

The soldiers surged from their positions, coming out into the open as they assembled around the fat lord and the Blackfyre shit. Those with swords clustered around the pair, while those with bows knocked arrows and aimed at Jon and the Forresters.

"I knew it!" Asher growled as he and the other raised their weapons.

Ghost growled as well, baring his fangs as his blood-red eyes looked at the newly arrived enemies.

Edric Blackfyre looked shocked. His shock quickly turned into anger, and he gripped Ludd Whitehill by the collar of his armour. "What have you done?!" he demanded.

The fat lord, his cheek red from the earlier slap, smiled defiantly. "You may have Umber sucking your cock, boy, but Karstark and I always knew you never had the balls to do what needed to be done! We'll defend the North by killing Jon Snow and every fucking Forrester we can find, along with all those Wildlings whores. After that's done, I'll have pretty little Sansa all to meself. Karstark will have all the Umber lands, and we'll finally have everything the Starks never gave us!"

Rolfe felt his blood boiling. No, they could not! Edric Blackfyre was his to kill, no one else. A son for a son. Drakon Blackfyre may be dead, but his ghost would know what it was like to lose his boy.

His vision clouding, Rolfe only had eyes for Edric Blackfyre. He roared at the top of his lungs, bursting from within the trees towards his target. His appearance was so sudden that no one had the chance to attack him.

Rolfe swung the axe in his right hand, aiming for Edric Blackfyre's face. The boy managed to dodge the attack, but Rolfe cut into his right hip with the other axe.

Edric Blackfyre growled in pain, as the axe cut deep.

Rolfe tried going for his opponent's face with the axe in his right hand, but the boy caught his wrist, blocking him. Rolfe looked into his enemy's amber eyes, noting a hidden reservoir of emotion and savagery. This boy was just as ruthless as his father. Killing him would be doing the world a favour.

"This is for my son," Rolfe said, pressing his axe further into the boy's hip, eliciting a grunt.

"I'm not dying today!" Edric Blackfyre countered. "I have too much to live for!"

Rolfe suddenly felt a knife pierce his armpit, driving deep into his chest cavity. He gasped, the breath sucked from his lungs as his chest burned in raw agony. His right hand involuntarily flexed open, causing him to drop an axe. The Ranger tasted metal in his mouth, and every breath became thrice difficult. His lungs felt…heavy, as if they were filling with fluid. That was a bad sign.

He coughed, spitting some blood on Edric Blackfyre's chest piece. "Going for the heart through the armpit to avoid the ribcage. Clever."

Rolfe felt his legs buckle, and he dropped to the snow. He saw Edric Blackfyre remove the axe in his hip before pressing a hand to the wound. Fighting raged around them, as Ludd Whitehill barked orders at his men. Jon and the Forrester brothers cut down any Whitehill soldier foolish enough to rush them, while Ghost tore into any man he could catch.

Rolfe felt himself slipping away as he bled onto the snow. As his vision darkened, he smiled. At least he would get to see his son Sebastion. That thought comforted him as he died.

Jon slashed a man across the neck, killing him. He stood near the edge of the cliff, his back towards the lake as he searched for his next opponent.

"Kill him!" Ludd Whitehill cried. "Kill the bastard!"

The archers focused on Jon, and just as they knocked their next arrows, Edric Blackfyre ran towards the bastard. He shielded Jon's body with his own, shouting as two arrows pierced him in the back. Jon slipped on the edge, and he and Edric Blackfyre tumbled towards the lake below.

"Jon!" Asher cried.

"We need to get out of here!" Rodrik said. He, Asher, and Ghost, all covered in blood, ran into the trees for cover as they retreated.

"Go! Get me the fuck out of here!" Ludd Whitehill barked. He and his men ran towards their horses.

None of them stayed long enough to see two holes in the thin layer of ice partially covering the surface of the lake. Neither did they see Jon Snow and Edric Blackfyre swept by the current into the White Knife river, which carried them south.

* * *

 _ **Braavos…**_

Drakon watched the healer tend to Arya Stark's wound. Whoever tried to kill her had stabbed her in the gut three times. A man twice her size would have died from such a wound, while she still had the strength to jump over a bridge.

Samwell was in the next room with Nymeria, while Ser Loras and Ser Prester stood guard by the front door. Drakon and his entourage had occupied the healer's shop, offering him a large amount of silver for exclusive use of his shop for the day. Now, the healer stood over Arya Stark, sewing the stab wounds and treating her with herbs. Despite being the second youngest child of Ned Stark, she had the resilience of the toughest pit fighter. A true wolf.

The healer finished, turning to Drakon.

"Well?" he asked.

"I've closed the wounds," the other man replied. "In time, they should heal. What she needs now is rest. I recommend she stays off her feet."

Drakon nodded. "Your efforts are appreciated. Samwell, give the man his silver."

The healer bowed and, after receiving his payment, walked out into the street.

Arya Stark stirred, looking around her new surroundings. Drakon, leaning in the doorway of the inner room, crossed his arms. "By all rights, you should have died from those wounds."

She looked at him, her gaze focusing on his silver hair. "Death and I are old friends."

"Hm."

When she tried to sit up, she hissed in pain, clutching her side as she laid back down. "I wouldn't recommend getting up just now. The healer said you would need rest." He paused, then asked "How did Ned Stark's youngest daughter end up in Braavos, bleeding in a river?"

Her eyes widened in shock, and he noticed her breathing quicken.

"You have nothing to fear from me. I could have left you to bleed out in that river, but instead I brought you here."

"Who are you?"

"I am Drakon Blackfyre, King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I've heard of you," Arya said, her distrust replaced by cautious suspicion. "What brought you here?"

"Interest payments," he grumbled, sitting in a chair across from her. "I'll ask again: how did Ned Stark's youngest daughter end up in Braavos, bleeding in a river?"

"It's a long story."

He arched an eyebrow. "And the short version?"

Arya looked him in the eyes and replied "I wanted to become No One."

Drakon leaned back in his chair, understanding. "The Faceless Men. And did they do this to you?" he asked, gesturing to her stab wounds.

"I decided to go home. They didn't like that."

"I'm returning to Westeros soon. Would you like to accompany me?"

Arya looked at him, surprise evident on her face. "Why?"

"Because your family has suffered enough. And unlike the Lannisters, I don't kill children."

She snorted. "That's not what I hear."

Drakon's hand clenched into a fist, but he kept his expression calm. "Sometimes a person's reputation can be…exaggerated. Your sister is alive and well at Winterfell, and Rickon still lives. Your brother Jon still resides at the Wall. Don't you want to see them again?"

Arya's expression softened at the mention of her siblings. She stared at him for several moments, probably deciding if she could trust him. Whether she did nor not, they both knew he was her best chance of getting home again. Eventually, she said "I can't go home without my sword."

"Your sword?"

She nodded. "Needle. I left it in a safe place."

"Ser Prester," Drakon called. The Kingsguard stepped into the room a moment later. "Lady Stark has a sword she hid away. I want you to collect it."

Arya gave him the location of her hideout, and the Northern knight bowed before departing. Afterward, she asked "Is it true you killed all the Lannisters?"

"Not all," Drakon replied. "I killed the worst ones."

"I wish I could have been there. How did you do it?"

Drakon looked out the shop's window, memories of his conquest rising to the surface. "I killed Cersei with Wildfire. Jaime too. My son Edwyn beheaded their uncle Kevan after defeating him at Riverrun. After conquering the Westerlands, my forces sacked Lannisport and killed every Lannister they could find."

Arya smiled. "Good."

They spent the next hour in silence, choosing to rest and continue their conversation later. Drakon stirred when there was a knock at the front door. Ser Loras gripped his sword, warily opening the door a crack. His tension eased, and he fully opened the door to reveal Ser Prester. The Northerner entered the shop, a thin rapier tucked in his belt. That must have been Arya Stark's weapon. It was small and light, perfect for someone of her size.

Ser Prester walked past Samwell and Nymeria. The Direwolf stirred from her sleep, looking up at him and growling. He ignored her, closing the door to the inner room behind him.

"Well done, Ser Prester," Drakon said.

Nymeria started scratching at the door, barking. Something was setting her on edge. Drakon frowned at the door, wondering what it could have been. A gaping pit opened in his gut as he looked up at Ser Prester, whose lips curled in a dark smile. Remembering what city they were in, Drakon shot up and shoved the knight against the wall. Ser Prester responded by delivering a sharp kick to his knee, then a swift head-butt sent him sprawling to the floor.

Drakon watched as Ser Prester pulled his own face off, revealing the face of a young woman with dead eyes and a self-assured smile.

Nymeria growled, clawing at the door as Ser Loras called out "Your Grace!"

Before Drakon could attack again, the young woman savagely kicked him in the groin. His vision burst into stars as he released an involuntary squeal, clutching his brutalized manhood. Drakon had been cut, burned, beaten, and shot full of arrows, but that was easily one of the worst injuries he had ever received.

The young woman wearing Ser Prester's armour turned to look at Arya, who panted from fear as she tried uselessly to sit up. Amid the growls and angry voices from the other side of the door, the young woman said "The Many-Faced God was promised a name. I was promised a name. In the end, nothing can stop Him from getting what He wants." She drew Arya's thin rapier, admiring it for a moment. "Valar Morghulis."

Just as she said those words, the door burst open, revealing Samwell and Ser Loras with their swords drawn. Nymeria leaped at the young woman, tackling her to the ground. The Direwolf tore her throat open with her fangs, spraying blood over her fur amidst the agonized wails. Nymeria tore a large chunk of flesh from the young woman's throat, then backed away.

Samwell rushed to Drakon's side, helping him stand. Drakon looked at the bloody corpse and said "Valar Dohaeris."

Arya visibly relaxed, and when her eyes fell on the Direwolf, they widened in shock as her lips curled in a smile. "Nymeria?" she said, her voice full of disbelief.

The Direwolf whimpered, her muzzle wet with blood.

"How?"

Drakon replied "Not long after you disappeared from King's Landing, we received reports of a large wolf terrorizing the Smallfolk. I sent Samwell with some hunters to track it down. He came back with her, and she's been at his side ever since."

"She gave me a gift when we first met," Samwell said, gesturing to the scars across his face.

"She will not be the only one," Drakon said, pointing to the corpse. "Until we are ready to leave, we stay here. Then we can leave this city."

Two days later, everything was in place. The Golden Company and the soldiers from the Stormlands boarded the ships recently purchased with gold from the Iron Bank, and they left Braavos behind. Once he placed Arya in a bed in her cabin, Drakon walked onto the deck of his ship, staring out at the Narrow Sea as his fleet began the journey that would lead to King's Landing. Rhaegon and Maelion flew overhead, their great golden wings flapping to keep them aloft. They both roared, announcing the fleet's departure from Essos.

The Black Dragon was coming home.

* * *

 **Whew, this chapter turned out longer than I expected! But I'm pretty happy with the result; we're winding down the season, and a couple big battles are on the way. This was final setup for those conflicts, and I hope you enjoyed the intrigue and plotting.**

 **Also, did anyone see the Season 8 premiere? HOLY BALLS, THE FEELS! So many great reunions, and I cannot wait until the next episodes air.**

 **Lord Pyrus: It is not a bad thing, and I'm glad you enjoyed it! That was a fun piece to write. It is definitely a major setback for the Darklytes, as they've lost a major potential source for experienced troops and discovered their primary enemy is, in fact, alive, which complicates matters for them. But they're not down for the count just yet…they've got plans.**

 **nanold: Thanks! Drakon does need to use his head, as the Darklytes are very intelligent enemies who will not go down as easily as the Freys or Boltons.**

 **TheOnlyKing: Wow, thanks! Drakon claiming the throne was pretty much the core idea that made me write The Black Dragon in the first place, so that's high praise! The Golden Company is something I've wanted to tackle in this story for quite a while (given its connection with Drakon's birth and past), and I'm so glad the show's finally featuring them, too. Cersei sure was disappointed about those elephants, wasn't she? And yeah, Drakon will be kicking ass when he gets back, because his house is SOOO out of order at the moment. Stay tuned!**

 **TheIronEmperor: Thanks! And that's a totally valid criticism. After all, half of Roman Imperial history is Legions and Legionary commanders rebelling against the Emperor, so your point stands. Even strong, visionary leaders like Drakon aren't perfect, and sometimes their plans don't last beyond their deaths. Such massive reform will take generations of cooperation/strong-arming, and he's hoping to kickstart that process as much as he can. From a realist perspective (if Drakon wants change within his lifetime), he'll probably create a system similar to that of Achaemenid Persia: the Golden Company will be his core, standing fighting force, a la the Immortals, with the rest of Westeros' forces equivalent to the Persians' regional levies. His Dragons will also let him project his authority a great deal, just like Aegon's did when he conquered most of Westeros with a pitifully small army and navy. No system is perfect, and Drakon is proceeding as he thinks it will best serve the realm in the long run. Thanks for your thoughtful critiques!**

 **Please leave a review! Your responses help motivate me to get these chapters published!**


	35. Battles of Ice and Fire

_**Meereen…**_

Daenerys was silent as the Masters' armada lobbed fireballs at the city.

Tyrion, Varys, Grey Worm, and Missandei were gathered at the far end of her chambers, across from the balcony. They flinched every time the pyramid shook; the impacts sounded far too close for anyone's liking. Daenerys stared at Tyrion, her lips pressed together in a tight frown. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it faltered as the pyramid shook again.

"Despite appearances, I think you'll find the city's on the rise."

He flinched at another impact.

"Perhaps we should take shelter," he suggested.

Daenerys stared at him, letting the seconds pass, then asked "The city's on the rise?"

"Meereen is strong," Tyrion replied. "Commerce has returned to the markets. Your people are behind you." Another impact. "Well, not all the people, of course. No ruler that ever lived had the support of all the people. But the rebirth of Meereen is the cause of this violence. The Masters cannot let Meereen succeed, because if Meereen succeeds, a city without slavery, a city without Masters, it proves no one needs a Master."

Daenerys' stare softened. "Good. Shall we begin?"

"Your Grace," Varys said in his soft, singsong voice. "There is a pressing matter that requires your attention."

"More pressing than an armada laying siege to my city?"

"There is no denying we face great danger from without, Your Grace, but the danger from within could prove equally deadly."

Daenerys' interest piqued. "Go on."

"While you were…gone, Lord Tyrion and I set out to re-establish order to the city. Towards that goal, we sought to discover the identity of the leader of the Sons of the Harpy."

"And you found him?" she asked.

"Yes. We discovered that the Sons of the Harpy are being funded and supplied by Astapor, Yunkai, and Volantis. It was representatives from those cities Lord Tyrion brokered a truce with."

When Daenerys looked at Tyrion, he shrugged.

"And it was a Master from one of those cities that led the Sons of the Harpy?" she asked.

Varys and Tyrion shared an uneasy glance. "Unfortunately not, Your Grace. Not long after the truce was brokered, my birds in Yunkai sang to me of a deal that was struck last year, between the Wise Masters and Hizdahr zo Loraq. It was made when you dispatched him to negotiate a peace in Yunkai."

"You're saying he betrayed me." Daenerys curled her lip, pacing as she processed the news.

"So it would seem, Your Grace."

"He always wanted you to reinstate Meereen's grand traditions," Tyrion added.

Daenerys looked back at Varys. "But he was murdered by the Sons of the Harpy in Daznak's Pit, during the Great Games. Why did they turn on their leader?"

"It would seem that Hizdahr was not the only one who made an agreement with the Masters," Varys said. "There was another, his partner. They worked together to create chaos in Meereen, and when Hizdahr outlived his usefulness, his partner turned on him and had him killed."

"Did your birds tell you who the partner was?"

Tyrion took a half step forward and replied "Daario Neharis."

Daenerys' mouth fell open, her brow creasing. "What? N-No, that cannot be."

"I'm afraid it is," Varys said. "Daario helped found the Sons of the Harpy, making them believe that he wanted you removed from power. In reality, they were merely his pawns in a scheme to earn him greater favour with you."

"Daario was always the one counseling me to execute all the Masters."

"He was," Tyrion said. "The more the Sons of the Harpy killed, the more he pressed for you to cleanse the slavers for good. If you remember, they killed just as many Masters as freedmen in Daznak's Pit."

Grey Worm added in Valyrian "It is true, my queen. When Daario and I hunted for Sons of the Harpy, he knew where one was hiding behind a wall. He claimed that his Second Sons learned it through drink and conversation."

Daenerys looked outside, seeing the fireballs streak through the sky before striking the Great Pyramid. "If what you say is true, then one of my advisors has betrayed me."

"Where is Daario now?" Tyrion asked.

"He and Olene are leading the Dothraki. They should be here before long."

"Then I suggest we have him imprisoned and deal with him once the Masters' fleet has been neutralized."

* * *

 _ **White Knife…**_

Edric dreamed of home. Not Winterfell, not King's Landing, or even Dragon's Rest. He dreamed of Ashford, and the time their family had spent there, happy and together.

His earliest memory was watching his father train, swinging a sword at a wooden practice target. Edric and Edwyn always knew their father was strong; he would always protect them, keep them safe. All his life, the son of Drakon Blackfyre wanted to be as strong as his father, as brave as his father. He hoped to become a knight one day, a defender of those who could not protect themselves.

The day after, he had picked up a broom and hit that target. Edric, only five years old at the time, stumbled and dropped the broom as often as he hit the target. He and Edwyn fought over that broom, imagining it was a sword of legend, their target Aemon the Dragonknight or Barristan Selmy.

Jayne spent her time reading and learning the intricacies of politics and rode Ebony across the field, while Edric and Edwyn devoted themselves to the art of the sword.

Edric's father found them, swinging at the target with a broom, and smiled. He told them that if they wanted to hit it, they should at least do it properly. From then on, he taught them how to wield a sword, how to stand, how to gauge one's opponent in a fight. When they moved to Dragon's Rest, Ser Prester took over their training as their father became busy with his plans. Edric, though grateful to the Northerner, never forgot those early lessons. They gave him the strength to retake the North, to endure losing his eye.

He also dreamed of his mother, Jocelyn. She may have been a bastard, cast out by her lord father, but to Edric, she was the world. He loved her dearly, running to her in tears after falling down the stairs. She hardly said a word, just holding him in her arms and singing to him. Edric's world had ended when she died, poisoned by a coward. She taught him to be kind, to never let strength or bravery take the place of love.

Now, he had a wife of his own, and a child on the way. He was in the same shoes his own father had filled all those years ago.

The world of dream and memory faded, and Edric felt only cold. Cold and wet. He was moving, yet he was not in control. With a quick jerk, Edric grunted, his hip and back flaring in hot pain. He clenched his teeth, growling as someone dragged him over the ground by his armpits.

In that moment, he remembered the meeting with Jon Snow, the Ranger with rage in his eyes who tried to kill him, and shielding Jon from Whitehill arrows.

Edric opened his eyes and saw Jon Snow standing over him, water dripping from his beard. "You're…" he started to say, feeling out of breath. Speaking felt heavy. "You're alive."

"Aye, we're alive," Jon said.

"Didn't seem like it," Edric said. He realized just how cold he was; in addition to the pain he felt from his wounds, his muscles felt frozen solid, his beard had crystallized, and the cold air was difficult to breathe. He had no feeling in his fingers and toes, along with other things. "Seven Hells," he muttered. "Feels like my balls are shrinking to the size of raisins!"

Jon snorted. "I'll get a fire started."

Once the dark of night had been breached by the firelight, Edric felt some semblance of sensation returning to his extremities. "Where are we?" he asked.

Jon, sitting by the fire, took a moment to look around. "White Knife. I reckon we're a day's ride east from Winterfell."

"A day's ride. How long to walk?"

Jon looked at him and replied "Longer."

Edric flexed his fingers, willing them not to fall off. "You could have let me drown."

"You could have let me get shot full of arrows," Jon countered.

"That was never an option. Sansa would never have forgiven me, and I couldn't live knowing she hated me for taking another brother from her."

"You love her?"

"With all my heart," Edric said without hesitation. "If I can give her a scrap of happiness after years of misery, then I don't care what happens to me."

"You said you saw the threat Beyond the Wall," Jon said, giving him an odd look. "How?"

"I saw a vision in the flames. I thought I was losing my mind, but I knew what I saw was the truth: a horde of death, with monstrous riders coming to claim our lives and our world."

"White Walkers," Jon explained. "If they get south of the Wall, we'll lose everything."

Edric coughed. "We need to get to Winterfell and keep our men from killing each other. This war will only hurt us in the long run." Jon stood, the blade of his knife glowing hot like the red comet in the sky years ago. He crouched beside Edric, silently asking for permission. Edric nodded, preparing himself for what was coming. Jon broke the back of the arrows, then pulled the shafts out from his chest. Edric hissed, his chest flaring. When Jon pressed his hot knife against the holes in his back and chest, Edric opened his mouth wide. No scream came out; he tensed so hard he thought he might break a bone or two. Once the arrow holes were sealed, Jon pressed the knife to the deep cut in his hip. By then, Edric's vision grew hazy as his grip on consciousness slipped.

"Hey," Jon said, gripping his chin. "Hey!" he repeated, shaking him. Edric fought to stay awake, blinking as he focused on the face staring down at him. "If we want to get to Winterfell in time, we have to go now."

Edric nodded. Jon helped him stand, eliciting a grunt. The two men smothered the fire, then started walking west, Edric with Wolf's Howl at his side and Jon with Longclaw at his side.

Edric would live to see his child born.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Sansa watched the Umber soldiers enter Winterfell, along with the people of Last Hearth. It seemed the war would find its way there after all. Smalljon Umber rode in with the last of his men, cradling an arm. When she spoke with him, demanding to know where her husband was, he told her Edric had gone to speak with Jon.

What were the odds that Edric sought out Jon to negotiate the same time she sent her brother a secret message? They were too close for her to think them a coincidence. But, if peace could be achieved, then it did not matter.

So, Sansa set herself to the task of running the castle. She, along with kindly Maester Pyne, oversaw the housing and supply of the Umbers. The forces of Deepwood Motte, Castle Cerwyn, Karhold, and Barrowton had been assembling at Winterfell for days now, and even though most of them encamped outside the castle, they still needed to be fed and looked after. Many of the Northern lords argued, asserting their needs came first, and they squabbled like children. Sansa understood a little of how her mother must have felt raising five Northern children. She remembered all her lessons, from her parents and from her captors, in dealing with so many forceful personalities. She was Sansa Blackfyre, Lady of Winterfell. With any luck, her lord husband would return soon and they could declare an end to this pointless war.

It was not meant to be.

Ludd Whitehill and his men rode into Winterfell the morning after Smalljon Umber. Sansa thought it odd that they had twice as many horses as they needed. Perhaps they were meant for the army? But then she noticed that several of the men were injured. If they had been involved in the skirmish near the Long Lake, they likely suffered losses. But why had they waited so long to come to Winterfell?

Sansa descended into the courtyard below, Brienne a short step behind. "Lord Whitehill," she called. "We've been expecting you. Where is my husband?"

The fat lord dismounted, a sour look on his face. "He's dead," he grumbled.

Sansa stopped, feeling as if she were struck. Dead? "N-no, it can't be," she said, shaking her head. "That's not possible."

"It's more than fucking possible, it happened!" Ludd growled.

Smalljon Umber emerged from within the castle, his brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, Whitehill?"

"He went to meet with Jon Snow. The bastard said he wanted to make peace, but he and his men ambushed us. One of his Night's Watch lackeys came out of nowhere and killed him with an axe. We tried to save him, but there were too many. We barely made it out of there with our lives."

Sansa gasped, her jaw quivering. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she fought to keep a straight face. "No. Jon would never do that."

"Well, your bastard half-brother's changed, then," Ludd retorted. "Last we saw, he was killed by his own men. They stabbed him in the heart with knives and left him to bleed in the snow."

Smalljon walked over to Ludd and, gripping him by the collar, lifted him above the ground. "You should have tried harder to save Edric, you fat fuck!"

"Get your hands off me!" Ludd growled.

"My lord," Sansa said. When Smalljon did not move, she repeated much louder "My lord!" This time, he looked at her. "Put him down." Smalljon did so, stepping back. "If Jon is gone, then there's a good chance his army is on their way. From what we know, he kept the Wildlings in check. They cannot be allowed to ravage our lands. Prepare for battle, but make a truce if you can."

Ludd scoffed. "So you're giving us commands now?"

"She is the Lady of Winterfell," Brienne told him, her voice as sharp as steel. "You are oathbound to obey her."

Smalljon and Ludd walked off to oversee preparations, while Sansa headed inside the castle. She kept walking until she reached an empty hallway, then allowed herself to start crying. Just when she thought she had escaped the horrors of the world, her husband and her brother were now dead. The gods were cruel, indeed, giving her hope before ripping it out of her hands.

"My lady?" Maester Pyne asked.

Sansa sniffled, wiping her eyes clean before turning to face him. "Yes, Maester?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice even.

"Lady Margaery has gone into labour," the old man replied. "She's asked you to be at her side."

"Yes, of course." Sansa followed after him. She wanted to be strong for Margaery, but her friend about to birth a child keenly reminded her that her own child would now have to grow up without knowing its father. Sansa's memories of her own father were so precious to her, and she wished she had had more time with him.

Sometimes life was wretched.

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Daenerys stared at the three Masters who agreed to meet with her. They stood there, so arrogant, so assured of their victory. In the distance, their armada continued to lob fireballs at the city. Before the day was done, Daenerys would wipe the Masters from existence once and for all. Then she would deal with Daario's betrayal.

Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Missandei stood beside her, along with a dozen Unsullied. The Masters had thirty guards with them, but Daenerys would bet on her Unsullied any day. They stood outside the city, a neutral location where they could negotiate.

"Once before, I offered you peace," Razdal mo Eraz said. He sounded just as sure of himself as he did back at Yunkai. "If you had not been so arrogant, you could have returned to your homeland with a fleet of ships. Instead, you will flee Slaver's Bay on foot like the Beggar Queen you are."

Daenerys fixed him with a steel gaze, not allowing herself to blink.

"We're here to discuss terms of surrender, not to trade insults," Tyrion said.

Yezzan, standing to Razdal's left, said "The terms are simple. You and your foreign friends will abandon the Great Pyramid and the city of Meereen. The Unsullied you stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder. The translator you stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder. If the Dragons are seen in Slaver's Bay again, they will be slaughtered."

Daenerys smirked. "We obviously didn't communicate clearly. We're here to discuss _your_ surrender, not mine."

The three Masters chuckled, smiling at each other.

"I imagine it's difficult," Razdal said, "adjusting to the new reality. Your reign is over!"

"My reign has just begun."

Amidst the distant booms and crashes of the armada's attack, a roar thundered from nearby. The Masters and their guards looked fearfully at the sky. Drogon appeared from below the cliff, flapping his great wings, and the Masters crouched, holding their hands over their heads. Daenerys' eldest child circled above them before landing on the nearby structure. He growled at the Masters, then hopped down to the ground with a mighty thud.

Daenerys climbed his wing onto his back, then urged him forward. Drogon walked, scattering the Masters' guards, then leaped off the cliff. He soared high above Meereen, fire given flesh. In the distant sky, Daenerys saw Rhaegal and Viserion returning to her at last. They flew towards her, and now all her children were reunited.

They descended towards the Masters' armada as spectres of death about to bring divine judgement. Daenerys simply said "Dracarys!"

Drogon and his brothers bellowed great plumes of Dragonfire at the nearest ship, instantly setting it alight. The sailors screamed as they burned, while some jumped overboard to escape their doom. Soon, the ship was blasted in half and sank into the water.

As the Dragons ended the attack on the city, Grey Worm stepped forward. "You men have a choice," he told the Masters' guards. "Fight and die for Masters who would never fight and die for you, or go home to your families."

They promptly dropped their weapons and ran.

"Thank you for the armada," Tyrion said. "Our queen does love ships. Now, last time we spoke, we made a pact. You violated that pact. You declared war upon us. Though our queen does have a forgiving nature, this cannot be forgiven."

"Our queen insists that one of you must die as punishment for your crimes," Missandei added.

Tyrion smirked. "It does seem a bit abstract, doesn't it? Other people dying."

Razdal and Belicho looked at each other, then shoved Yezzan forward. "Him," Razdal said. "He should die. He's not one of us, he's an outsider, a lowborn. He does not speak for us."

Grey Worm slowly walked over to him, hands clasped behind his back.

"Please," Yezzan begged. He fell to his knees, hands held out.

Grey Worm drew his dagger, then slit Razdal and Belicho's throats. He sheathed the weapon and walked away, along with Missandei and the Unsullied.

Tyrion placed a hand on Yezzan's shoulder. "Tell your people what happened here. Tell them you live by the grace of Her Majesty. When they come forward with notions of retribution or ideas about returning the slave cities to their former glory, remind them what happened when Daenerys Stormborn and her Dragons came to Meereen."

At the same time, Olene and Daario rode at the head of the Dothraki horde. Their horses charged forward, their thundering hoofbeats drowning all sound. The Dothraki themselves yelped and howled war cries as they neared Meereen. They had kicked the horses faster when they saw smoke rising from Meereen. The queen would need their help.

Olene wielded an Arakh in her hand, her rapier sheathed at her belt. The weapon was far more suited for horseback, making it the obvious choice. Ever since they had departed Vaes Dothrak, the Braavosi felt so much closer to Kovarro. Riding a Dothraki horse, wielding a Dothraki weapon, it almost made it seem like he was by her side again, fighting with her. That feeling invigorated her as they entered the depression in front of the city's main gates.

Dozens of people were running out of the city, and Olene quickly saw why. Sons of the Harpy chased after them, slitting their throats and running them down with no mercy.

Olene and Daario, weapons in hand, shouted, and the Dothraki did the same as they charged towards the dissidents. The Sons of the Harpy had no chance, and Olene beheaded the nearest one as the rest fell in seconds. They and the Dothraki poured into Meereen, flowing through the streets like blood through veins and arteries. Everywhere they rode, they cut down the Sons of the Harpy. Their scourge would be cleansed from the city forever.

Olene lost track of how long they hunted down their enemies, nor how many she killed. Only one person in the world was worth killing, and all others were mere obstacles on her way to him: Drakon Blackfyre.

Eventually, she, Daario, and the Dothraki rode into the large square in front of the Great Pyramid. Drogon, the queen on his back, landed on the pyramid's side, his great body covering a large portion of it.

"Dothraki," the queen called in the horse-lord's tongue. "You have struck down my enemies. For that, I thank you!"

They all raised their weapons and cried out as one.

The queen pointed at Daario and said "That one has betrayed me. Bring him into the pyramid."

At first, Olene thought she heard incorrectly due to the stress and excitement of battle. But she also knew that when the queen said something, she meant it. Daario looked equally shocked, and for once, he was too stunned to speak. Before he could say anything, however, one of the Dothraki shot him in the leg with an arrow. He cried out in pain, and another Dothrakan threw a rope around him, yanking him onto the ground before dragging him into the pyramid.

Olene followed close behind, intent on figuring out what just happened.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Smalljon rode out with Harald Karstark, Ludd Whitehill, Cley Cerwyn, and four Blackfyre guards. They crossed the field outside Winterfell, careful to ride along the solid stretch of ground between the trenches Edric had had dug the last few weeks. It was early afternoon; there was no sun to be seen through the thick clouds, and the chill winter winds whipped at one's face.

Just outside the edge of the Wolfswood, Jon Snow's army was gathered. The majority were savage Wildlings, assembled in a rough formation, and Smalljon recognized men from Bear Island, Ironrath, and even a few from White Harbor. Luckily, most of the Manderly forces had been held back, so the army facing them was barely half the strength of the Blackfyre army. Smalljon even saw a lone Giant looming over its comrades; since Edric killed the other one, this creature might be the last of its kind.

They pulled their horses to a stop and waited for the enemy representatives. A group of riders approached, flanked by half a dozen soldiers bearing the traditional Stark banner: Rodrik and Asher Forrester, Ser Davos Seaworth, a ginger Wildling, and a little girl who could only be Lyanna Mormont. A white, red-eyed Direwolf accompanied them, nearly as large as the horses.

The two groups stared at each other, neither side having much trust.

"You can end this right now," Rodrik Forrester said. "We don't want a fight."

Before Smalljon could respond, Ludd scoffed and said "No, it won't be much of a fight. We've got 4,000 men. You've got…what? Half that? We'll be picking you out of our teeth by the day's end."

"That's what you thought when you laid siege to Ironrath," Asher Forrester retorted. "You hit us with everything you had, and we still got away. But not before I took your son's head."

Ludd's face grew beet-red with anger. "You fucking cunt! I'll have you skinned alive for killing Gryff!"

"You're the one who's going to die today, Ludd," the elder Forrester said. "For what you and Ramsay did to our mother and brother, we're going to open you up like a chicken and fertilize this field with your guts!"

Smalljon frowned. "If anyone's going to surrender today, it's you. You're rebelling against House Blackfyre."

"We remain loyal to House Stark, unlike you cowards," Lyanna Mormont spat. "They are the rightful lords of the North, and we'll see Sansa Stark reclaim her family's unjustly stolen position."

"House Stark doesn't exist anymore," Harald Karstark said. "And her name is Sansa—"

"Her sham marriage to Edric Blackfyre is over, now that he's dead."

"And you fuckers killed him," Smalljon growled. "I was just starting to like the little shit, but you decided to bring the Wildlings into our lands and murder your rightful liege lord."

"The Whitehills ambushed us!" Asher Forrester said. "We came with Jon to broker peace, and Ludd had his men waiting to kill us all."

Smalljon furrowed his brow, looking over at the fat lord.

"As I recall, it was one of your men who came out of the woods and sank his axe into Edric," Ludd said. "Your precious bastard wasn't as honourable as you thought. Now we'll put you in the ground right beside him."

"We'll see about that, Ludd. We'll see about that." Rodrik Forrester pulled on his horse's reins, and he and the rest of the rebel leaders rode back to their army.

Smalljon and the others returned to their army, which flew the banners of House Blackfyre of Winterfell: a black Direwolf on a grey field with Dragon wings on its back. Their infantry were assembled in a line several units deep, with archers lined up in front and cavalry on their wings. From what he saw of the enemy force, Smalljon guessed the rebels had less than a third the number of horsemen they did. If they took the bait and fell into Edric's pre-laid trap, then they would lose what little cavalry they had.

"Forward, march!" Smalljon ordered. He, Cley Cerwyn, and Harald Karstark rode at the head of the army, while Ludd naturally took a position at the rear, where it was safest.

The footsoldiers raised their spears, and the horsemen urged their mounts forward. The army slowly marched across the grassy field, every man stepping in unison. Across the way, the enemy were holding position, no doubt intending to wait and encircle them. When they were a few hundred paces from the trenches, Smalljon called for a halt.

"Archers!" Harald called.

The archers at the front lines ran forward, bows in hand, stopping just in front of the trenches. They were without the protection of their comrades, and well within the enemy's range of fire. Within minutes, arrows began to rain down on them as they launched volleys of their own. Normally, it was a foolish gesture to have archers on foot engaging at such close range, but that was the point. Smalljon knew the Wildlings would fall for the bait; they were inexperienced at tactical warfare, and they were susceptible to being riled up by arrow volleys by a deceptively easy target.

A few minutes into the engagement, Harald blew a horn twice, giving the signal. The archers turned around and ran back towards the main lines, while the two cavalry forces at their wings rode away.

The enemy cavalry charged forward, along with much of their infantry. Smalljon smiled; it seemed Edric's plan was going to work, after all. The Manderly horsemen leveled their spears, prepared to run down the fleeing archers. Instead, they fell into the trenches, which were concealed with sheets covered in layers of dirt and snow. Horses and men fell six feet before they were impaled by wooden spikes, creating a cacophony of agonized screams as bodies crashed into one another. The initial lines of infantry tried to stop, but their momentum kept them going, and they followed their dying cavalry. The rest tried to manoeuvre around the trenches; many of them fell in, as the trenches had been dug in irregular lines.

A great many soldiers made it through, however. They soon discovered the solid path between the trenches, and began pouring through it. Most of the Stark army would survive, only to be crushed.

Harald turned to Smalljon and said "It's time. Go."

Smalljon bristled at being given orders by the pompous cunt, but nevertheless, he dismounted his horse, drew his sword, and paced in front of his men. "WHO OWNS THE NORTH?" he called.

"WE DO!"

"WHO OWNS THE NORTH?" he repeated.

"WE DO!"

"SHOW ME!" he bellowed, turning to face the enemy.

Smalljon raised his sword and shouted, then charged towards the enemy soldiers. His men did the same, roaring as they crashed into the Stark men. At the same time, their cavalry circled around the trenches until they smashed into the enemy's rear.

* * *

Gjalda ran along the snow-covered grass, her heart pounding in her chest. She could hear the din of battle all the way over here. The others were counting on her; if she and her people could take Winterfell, then they could hold the Southern highborns hostage and get their forces to surrender.

Beside her were forty other Free Folk, a dozen of them belonging to her clan, the Shadow Claws. And as much as it pissed her off, there were a few Thenns as well. Hildi ran beside her, eager for Southern flesh.

They ran towards the eastern wall of Winterfell. Hopefully, the guards' attention would be drawn towards the battle, leaving them an opening. As they closed in, however, they started getting arrows shot at them. A handful of her group stopped, crouched, and fired back with their bows. Gjalda and the rest ran as fast as they could towards the wall. Now that winter had come, the snows had piled up enough to make the climb much easier.

Gjalda uncoiled the grappling hook around her shoulder, as did the others. She swung it a few times, then tossed it over the top. It caught on something solid, which made her smile. "Over the top!" she cried, pulling herself along the rope. A few of the guards started throwing heavy rocks down at them, and Gjalda saw one of the Ice River warriors smashed in the head with one. Fortunately, she made it to the top without issue.

Heaving herself onto the battlement, she drew a long knife and slashed one of the Blackfyre guards in the throat before he could draw his sword. More of her group made it to the top, and soon the guards in the immediate vicinity were dead.

Gjalda, along with the others of her clan, took the heavily knotted nets at their backs, hooked them together, then hung the whole thing all down the wall. Their nine Shadowcat companions hopped onto the nets, using their claws and superb dexterity to climb all the way onto the battlements.

"What do we do now?" one of the Thenns asked.

Sheathing her knife, Gjalda said "According to the Forresters, that Blackfyre shit has a pretty little wife somewhere in the castle. We capture her and her highborn friends, we get their army to surrender. Find them."

Most of her thirty-strong group dispersed through the castle, while Gjalda and her Shadow Claw warriors stayed at the wall. They all knelt, closing their eyes. When they opened them again, their eyes were milky white, and their minds occupied the bodies of their Shadowcats.

Gjalda, in Hildi's body, ran into a nearby hallway. She came across a passing guard, giving him no thought as she tore his throat open. The thrill of the hunt flowed through her, granting an ecstasy humans never had the chance to feel. All these Southerners were prey, walking meat for her to consume at her leisure. Edric Blackfyre had killed Rolfe, who only wanted to avenge the murder of his son. For that, Gjalda was going to take Edric's home and his wife from him.

She would find the girl, use her to get the army to surrender, then open her throat.

* * *

Brienne watched Lady Margaery on the birthing bed, screaming as Maester Pyne and a small number of handmaidens attended to her. Lady Sansa sat by her side, holding her shoulders and speaking supporting words.

In Westeros, a noble lady was supposed to marry and give her husband children. That had never appealed to Brienne, even before the boys had started mocking and jeering her appearance. She had trained as a warrior, and having children was simply one facet of proper behaviour she ignored. As such, she felt incredibly uncomfortable watching a child come into the world.

"Another contraction, my lady!" Maester Pyne said.

Lady Margaery, gripping Sansa by the arm, shrieked. Her face was as red as an apple, and she gleaned with sweat.

"It's alright, Margaery, you're doing so well!" Lady Sansa said. To Brienne, she sounded like a natural caregiver, a born leader who knew exactly how to comfort those in pain. To serve such a person, after a lifetime of seeking, was the highest honour Brienne could think of. She may not have been a knight, but she served a true leader.

"I can see the head," Maester Pyne said. "Your child is coming, my lady!"

 _Thunk_.

Everyone froze, and all eyes turned to look at the door of the guest chamber. Brienne drew her sword halfway, her nerves tingling in anticipation of a fight. She cautiously approached, her footsteps soft. Just as she came within two feet of the door, it burst open, revealing a dead Blackfyre guard with blood gushing from a large wound on his chest.

Standing over him was a Wildling, bald, with ritual scars and evil eyes.

Brienne shouted, lunging for him. He dodged, grabbed her arm, and elbowed her in the face. Her head rang like a bell from the impact, but she did not let that deter her. She had a sacred charge to defend the Lady Sansa and those within this room. Growling, Brienne headbutted the Wildling, knocking him off-balance long enough to drive her sword through his gut. He collapsed on top of the dead guard.

Pulling her weapon from the corpse, Brienne turned to Lady Sansa and said "Bar the door behind me."

"But you can't—"

"Now!" Brienne barked. She pulled the corpses out of the way, and the door closed behind her. With Oathkeeper in hand, she walked down the hall until she reached an intersection. A number of Wildlings rushed from around the corner, screaming savage battle-cries. Brienne roared her own, blocking their initial attacks before cutting two of them down in quick succession. The third lasted a bit longer, but she ended him with a slash to his manhood, then beheaded him while he screamed.

Everywhere Brienne turned, Wildlings stalked the halls. There could not have been too many, for the castle guards numbered 800. If the enemy had breached the gates, there would be far more than the pairs or lone attackers she encountered.

After dispatching another pair, Brienne rounded a corner to find a large Shadowcat feasting on a poor serving girl's intestines. In the midst of tearing out its victim's guts, it stopped. The creature's ears twitched, and it looked up at her. A chunk of meat fell from the Shadowcat's mouth, and its fangs were stained a bright scarlet. Just as Brienne entered a ready stance, she looked into its eyes. For a wild beast, it almost seemed to stare at her with the eyes of a person. They were far more intelligent than one would expect, possessing a degree of human-like intelligence.

Without warning, the Shadowcat leaped at Brienne, tackling her to the ground.

Brienne grunted and shouted as she fought the muscular beast on top of her, moving her head this way and that way to avoid being bitten. She held up an arm just as it chomped. The metal of her armour mostly stopped the fangs, but Brienne could still feel the immense pressure on her forearm.

With a growl, she drove Oathkeeper into the Shadowcat's middle. It whimpered in pain, releasing its grip on her arm. The intelligent eyes stared down at her, then closed as it collapsed on top of her.

Brienne grunted, feeling the air knocked out of her lungs. With a mighty effort, she rolled the furry corpse off of her.

Outside, the castle guards fought the remaining Wildlings. On the upper walkway, above the courtyard, Brienne saw one of the bald, scarred ones charging her, swinging an axe. She blocked the large weapon three times, then punched her enemy in the face once, twice, three times before throwing him off the edge of the railing. She heard the distinct _snap_ of his neck breaking.

On another part of the walkway, Katryna, Lord Edric's best hunter, together with half a dozen others, aimed crossbows at nine Wildlings. The Wildlings knelt on the battlements, not moving a muscle, with their heads bent towards the sky. One of them was slumped on the floor. Katryna and her hunters fired their crossbows. The bolts struck the Wildlings' heads, and they died instantly. At the same instance, all the Shadowcats menacing the guards collapsed as well.

Winterfell was secure.

* * *

Smalljon reveled in the violence. Men of House Umber always lusted for battle and challenge. His father, the Greatjon, threw himself with abandon at the Lannisters in the War of the Five Kings. Ultimately, it cost him his life, but he killed hundreds of those pompous cunts down South.

Now, Smalljon killed rebels. Some of them were fellow Northerners, men who fought with strength and honour. But most of them were Wildlings, savages from dozens of different tribes who only knew how to raid and murder innocents. It felt good to run them through with his sword. Smalljon fought in the midst of a savage melee as loyalist and rebel troops clashed in an ever-escalating meatgrinder. To his left, a Karstark soldier killed a Wildling only to get run over by a Manderly horseman. To his right, a pair of Mormont men yanked a Glover rider from his horse, only to get shot full of arrows. It was all so loud; the din of battle thundered all around, drowning every other noise besides agonized wails, horse whinnies, and steel clashing together.

In the midst of all that chaos, Smalljon saw a volley of arrows falling towards them. His eyes shot open, and he hurriedly grabbed a Cerwyn shield, holding it up. The tip of an arrow pierced it, stopping an inch from his face.

Several soldiers all around him, from both sides, were killed, collapsing onto the ground. Corpses were beginning to pile up as tall as a man, hemming in those still fighting. Smalljon saw another volley, and raised his shield. The arrows were being fired from their side of the field. What the fuck was Karstark thinking? He would kill just as many of their men as the enemy's by blindly firing. Smalljon always figured him the sort of coward who would claim victory at any cost, but this was low, even for him.

A nearby roar drew his attention. The last Giant strode through the battle like an angry child crushing anthills. It stomped and punched full grown men to death with barely an effort, and it shrugged off the arrows shot at it.

The Giant swiped at a Glover rider, knocking man and horse aside with contemptuous ease. It then charged forward, trampling all those before it. Smalljon quickly recognized Karstark's biggest mistake: by firing volley after volley of arrows into the melee, he had inadvertently created enough of a gap for the Stark men to push through. Led by the Giant, hundreds of Wildlings drove towards Karstark and his archers.

Smalljon turned and saw a bald, dark-skinned woman, a foreigner if he ever saw one, get speared through the side before two arrows pierced her skull. At that moment, a massive, bearded Essosi pit fighter approached him. "You will never survive this!" he bellowed. "The Beast kills all he fights!"

"My grandfather was a lot bigger than you!" Smalljon countered. "You're just a warm-up." He lunged at the massive pit fighter, hammering him with heavy blows. His opponent was big, but unskilled; he fought like a bruiser rather than a real warrior.

Smalljon soon gutted him like a trout, sparing him no thought.

Ahead, the Wildling force caught up with Karstark, who was unable to flee in time. The Giant killed his horse with a single punch. The animal fell on his leg, pinning him to the ground. Jon Snow's albino Direwolf then pounced on him, tearing the pompous cunt to pieces.

Smalljon called to his men "Phalanx! Box them in!"

As his soldiers reformed, he carved his way to the Wildlings who had broken through. One of them, a ginger with an admittedly impressive beard and a wicked short sword, roared as he swung at him. Smalljon blocked his initial attack, then shoved his sword aside before grabbing him by the fur shirt. Smalljon headbutted his opponent, and he kept headbutting him again and again. For the safety of the North, he had to win, and to win, he had to kill them all.

A horn rang nearby, and Smalljon paused to scan the battlefield. There, in the distance…Could that really be him?

His confusion was cut short as the ginger Wildling roared, gripping Smalljon by the arms and sinking his teeth into his neck. Smalljon howled, punching the ginger in the head until he stumbled back, then collapsed onto his knees, pressing a hand to his neck.

* * *

Edric fell to his hands and knees in the snow, not having the energy to remain standing. His lungs burned, and everything was sore. The points on his body where Jon had cauterized his wounds were raw, and they rubbed painfully against his leather jerkin. All he wanted to do in that moment was lay down and sleep, even if he would never wake up again. At least then the pain would stop.

But Edric remembered his responsibilities in Winterfell. The North would tear itself apart without him. Sansa was there, pregnant, waiting for him. He had to survive and return to her, even if getting back killed him in the process.

When Edric took his next breath, he coughed scarlet specks of blood onto the snow. His throat was raw, and he tasted metal in his mouth.

"Come on," Jon said, lifting him to his feet. "We need to keep moving."

"I don't think I'll make it to Winterfell," Edric admitted. His voice was uneven, his jaw quivering from the cold and the fatigue.

"None of that, now," Jon chided. "If you don't make it back, the Houses following you will keep fighting, and the North will be lost. We have to get back. We have to live."

"I was stabbed and shot with arrows!"

They stopped, and Jon frowned at him. "The woman I loved put three arrows in me. I thought I would die before getting back to Castle Black. I almost did. But I held on, knowing that there were other people counting on me."

"Sansa's pregnant," Edric said.

Jon said nothing, merely staring at him in shock.

"My father taught me to be brave, to hold to my convictions. Ever since he died, I've done nothing but shame myself. I thought you would take Sansa from me, and that terrified me, so I lashed out. I saw you as a threat, but you were trying to do what you thought was right. I threatened a girl because her dead father used to be an enemy. What does that say about me? What kind of man does that?"

They kept moving, Jon holding Edric's arm around his shoulders. "All my life, I never knew my mother. My father told me nothing about her, not a thing. I wondered what she looked like, what kind of person she was." He gave Edric a pointed look and added "It's a terrible thing for a child to grow up without a parent. Your child needs you to live."

Edric chuckled. "I guess you do know some things, Jon Snow."

Two days passed since they left the White Knife river. Without horses, and with no supplies, their journey was long and arduous. The North was always cold and dark, but now that winter was here, there was very little sunlight during the day, and the nights were freezing. Edric and Jon held on, enduring every obstacle their home threw at them. Eventually, they came within sight of Winterfell.

And they saw the battle.

In the snowy field outside the castle, near the edge of the Wolfswood, Edric and Jon's soldiers fought in a great tumult of steel and arrow, on foot and on horseback. Karstarks clashed with Mormonts, Forresters clashed with Whitehills, and Umbers clashed with Wildlings. The trenches were open, meaning they had caught much of Jon's army unawares.

"I guess I planned a little too well," Edric quipped.

Jon gave him a quiet glare, then said "We need to get down there. Are you well enough to walk on your own?"

Edric took a step forward, drawing Wolf's Howl. "Yes."

Jon drew Longclaw, and they proceeded to jog down the hill towards the battle.

The battle-cries and horse hooves caused the ground to quake, and it got stronger the closer they came. They could see bodies piled as high as five men in some places, and the ground was covered with dead men, horses, and broken weapons. Blood and guts melted the snow, casting a disgusting stench that almost burned one's nostrils.

Edric ran over to a Blackfyre soldier who carried a horn. "Come on, man, give it over!"

The soldier blanched. "M-m'lord? Is that? No, it can't be—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Edric hissed.

He snatched the horn from the man's hands and gave a single, sustained bellow. The armies started to pause at the sound. Edric coughed more blood onto his arm, then gave a second bellow. This time, the fighting stopped for good. Soldiers from both sides stared at him, their weapons in hand. Everyone looked ready to kill each other at the slightest word, so Edric had to make this count.

"Stand down!" he cried. "This battle serves no one! This war has been a mistake, a terrible mistake. We've been fighting each other over petty disputes, while the real enemy is out there preparing to kill everyone and everything we've ever known. You are all Northerners! Your Houses have been allied for centuries! Don't let yourselves be consumed by selfish hatreds and childish power plays."

"He speaks the truth!" Jon shouted, joining him. "We need to stop killing each other and start working together. The North is our home; don't stain it with the blood of those you once called friends and allies."

Edric's men looked at each other and those they had just stopped fighting. At first, there was naught but silence, but then one of the soldiers close by threw his sword on the ground. Then another, and another, and soon all of them were discarding their weapons. Even the Mormonts, Forresters, and Manderlys did the same. The Wildlings, for the most part, looked confused at the whole affair.

Remembering the events leading to him and Jon falling into the Long Lake, Edric bellowed "Ludd! Where are you? Come on out, you coward! I'll take your head for what you did, you—"

He stopped when a crossbow bolt pierced his back.

Edric stumbled, his Valyrian Steel sword slipping from his grasp. He turned around to see Ludd standing beside his men, a crossbow in hand. The fat bastard wore a satisfied smirk on his face, his eyes gleaming with victory.

Falling to his knees, Edric felt himself slipping away. He looked up as Rodrik and Asher Forrester roared, lunging for their archenemy. They stabbed and cut him a dozen times, each blow non-fatal by itself. Together, however, they added up to a slow and painful death. As Rodrik buried the Forrester family sword through Ludd's gullet, he growled "That was for our mother, you son of a bitch!"

The Whitehill men looked like they were going to retaliate, but stopped as men from all the other Northern Houses gathered around them. Jon Snow's Giant and Direwolf growled, and the Whitehills all kneeled in surrender.

Edric collapsed onto the snow, his strength quickly leaving him. Jon was at his side in an instant. "Hey," he said, shaking him. "Hey!"

With his final breaths, Edric said "Please…Please take care of Sansa."

"I will," Jon said.

Edric died staring at the sun, comforted by its warmth.

* * *

 **I apologize for the slight delay. I started work last week, and it was such an atrociously painful week. I had no energy for writing whatsoever. Thankfully, things have quieted down, and I've got my mojo back! Also, Season 8 has me so fired up to write the final sections of this story that I have to just power through!**

 **Well, there's the chapter. Overall it was hard to write, as this was a pretty emotional chapter. I hope you all enjoy it; the last thing I want is for the character stuff to feel fake.**

 **Also, OH MY GOD, THOSE LAST TWO EPISODES! I'M STILL RECOVERING FROM THE LONG NIGHT AND AVENGERS: ENDGAME HAPPENING IN THE SAME WEEK! I'VE NEVER CRIED SO MUCH!**

 **This was my version of Battle of the Bastards. Obviously, the events of the battle itself would shift without Ramsay and Rickon. Jon wouldn't pull a Leeroy Jenkins, and his army wouldn't foolishly charge in after him. The battle itself out in the field is, I think, shorter than the one in the show because it's a little too in the 'loyalists' favour, hence the addition of the stuff inside Winterfell. Think of the Battle of Castle Black, with the big army stuff happening in one place and the smaller melee inside the castle taking up a lot of the action. I hope the battle as I present it makes sense. If not, please say so!**

 **Originally, when I started writing this story, I wanted Edric and Jon leading their armies in person, complete with an epic duel to decide the fate of the North. In the end, I couldn't go through with it, because Edric would appear too much like a jealous warlord who couldn't see past his own insecurities. He's a good person at heart, and if he saw the extent of the White Walkers, he'd re-examine his priorities.**

 **Also, what did you think about the Daario twist? Did it come from absolutely nowhere, or do some of you think he would be capable of that? Again, if it feels unrealistic, let me know!**

 **Please leave a review!**

 **TheOnlyKing: That's something I've been looking forward to as well! Yeah, it's nice to be updating quicker. As I mentioned a few chapters ago, work on my novel really took off, and the show not being on killed a lot of my buzz for this story. But now I want to make the push to get the final sections out there!**

 **TheIronEmperor: I grinned so much when I read your review! Thanks so much. It's lovely to hear that I get the canon characters right. Smalljon in particular is someone I wanted to work on, since I was so excited to see him on the show. He was big, bearded, badass, foul-mouthed, and an all-around interesting character because he had no time for people's bullshit. The show killed him off way too quickly. Here, he's Edric's grumpy Chewbacca, and he serves as a nice foil to Tormund, Jon's big, bearded, badass, foul-mouthed buddy. Also, my apologies to your wife.**

 **South Down: Killing her was tough, but this is Westeros. Cool/good people die all the time. Arya and Drakon meeting was a fun section to write. I've got some more scenes with them coming in the next chapters. It's nice that Edric and Jon are starting to overcome their differences now that Edric's 'seen the light' about the White Walkers. As for the Adrya thing…that would have been really interesting.**


	36. The Dragon's Return

_**The Narrow Sea…**_

For yet another night, Drakon could not sleep.

Whenever he tried, the world of dreams was closed to him. His thoughts were consumed with memories of Jayne, Edric, Edwyn, Daemon and Rhaenyra, and of Visenya. Drakon could hardly imagine the pain they had all gone through, likely thinking he was dead since the Siege of Meereen. Edric and Edwyn were strong, and Jayne was clever; he knew in his heart they would help maintain the peace he had forged.

He just had to get home and see them.

With the absence of sleep, Drakon put on a red shirt, left his cabin, and made his way up to the deck. Most of the other passengers were asleep, so the only people he encountered were the crew, who bowed as he passed. Ser Loras, ever vigilant, followed in his wake.

He soon emerged from the ship's interior. It was nighttime, and the stars twinkled between the clouds. A breeze whipped at Drakon's skin, but he never minded the cold. His blood always ran hot. Rhaegon and Maelion flew overhead, circling above the fleet. The golden hue of their wings glittered, even as they blocked whole swaths of stars at a time. The fleet stretched across the water, bearing the full might of the Golden Company as well as 2,000 of Samwell's troops from the Stormlands. The enemies of the Black Dragon would drown in blood and burn in fire.

Drakon paused in his ruminations. Was someone breathing behind him?

"Not many people can sneak up to me like that," he said, staring out across the water.

"I've had a lot of practice," Arya Stark replied. She stepped over to his side, placing her hands on the railing. She stared at the horizon, her brow creased.

"You can't sleep?"

She shook her head. "There's a part of me that still can't believe I'm going home after all this time. When I left, it seemed like there was nothing for me there. But now I know my sister and brothers are alive, and I can't wait to go home."

Drakon smiled. "I know the feeling."

"I spent all that time training, imagining what I would do to the people on my list."

Arching an eyebrow, Drakon asked "A list of people you were going to kill?"

"Yes."

"I had a list of my own, once. Crossing off those names was one of the proudest acts of my life."

"Did you really kill them all?" Arya asked.

"I killed a lot of people when I took the Iron Throne. Who was on your list?"

"Meryn Trant."

"My Dragon ate him in a Trial by Combat."

"Cersei."

"I burned her alive with Wildfire."

"Joffrey."

"Unfortunately, I had nothing to do with his death. That was the work of Olenna Tyrell."

"Illyn Payne."

"I took his head with his own sword. I thought it appropriate."

"The Mountain."

"Oberyn Martell stabbed him with a poisoned spear. I cut off his hands and his ears, cut out his eyes, knocked out his teeth, then stayed with him all night while he died slowly and painfully."

"Walder Frey."

"Your Great Uncle Brynden had him tied to four horses and ripped apart. I wiped out the rest of House Frey."

"Tywin Lannister."

"Shot with a crossbow by his own son while taking a shit."

"The Red Woman."

"Melisandre, Stannis' advisor? My wife sliced her throat open at Castle Black."

"Beric Dondarrion."

"No one heard from him or the rest of the Brotherhood before I left. With the realm largely at peace, I suppose there was no need for them. Maybe there is now." Drakon looked down at Arya, then added "I'm sorry I took them from you. More than anyone, I understand the need to see that sort of thing through yourself. I only—"

"Thank you."

Drakon stopped, furrowing his brow. "That's not the reaction I expected."

"I'm disappointed I never got the chance to kill them myself. I killed a few on my own, before I left. But now…I don't know. It almost seems like my path is open. All the people who destroyed my family and my life are gone, and now I can go home."

"You should know that Westeros is in some turmoil. There may be some need for your…unique skills before we can finally rest."

Arya smiled. "Valar Morghulis."

"Valar Dohaeris," Drakon said. "Here, I want to show you something." He drew the Valyrian Steel dagger he kept at the back of his belt, untying the sheath before holding it out to her. "An assassin used this dagger to try to murder your brother Brandon. It helped start the War of the Five Kings. I acquired it in King's Landing some time later. It's been very useful over the years."

He handed it to Arya, who drew the dagger from its sheath. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she admired the weapon. "Valyrian Steel."

"The handle's made from Dragon bone," Drakon said.

"A fine weapon."

"It is. I want you to have it."

Arya looked up at him, shock etched across her face. "No, I can't."

"One does not simply refuse a king's gift," Drakon said, a playful smirk on his face. "It's yours. I have a feeling that it will serve you better. My fighting style has always been more about…brute force."

"Thank you," she said, looking at the dagger with a new appreciation.

"Now, since neither of us can sleep, and we're still days away from King's Landing, I suggest we pass the time with some training." Drakon took a sword from one of the nearby guards, then moved to the centre of the deck.

"Training?" Arya asked.

"Yes. Let's see if anything you learned from the Faceless Men can help you beat me. And don't feel bad when you lose; after all, I've only ever lost a duel twice in my entire life."

Arya's confusion morphed into quiet confidence, and she took the bait. The Stark girl came to stand in front of him, twirling the dagger in her hand. She was obviously getting a feel for it. Drakon entered a ready stance, then nodded. Arya came at him with surprising speed and ferocity, handling the dagger well despite her inexperience with it. Drakon parried or dodged most of her attacks with relative ease. She lunged, but he dodged, grabbed her wrist, and held his sword to her neck.

"Dead," he said.

Arya grunted, and they started again. This time, she hurled the dagger at him. Drakon barely dodged in time, and the dagger missed his nose by an inch before imbedding itself in the mast. Arya came at him with a series of jabs and kicks that would have likely incapacitated a lesser opponent. Drakon, however, was many times her size with a heavily muscular build. Her attacks smarted for a moment, but did not cause much harm. After blocking a jab to his throat, he kicked her feet out from under her, and she fell to the deck.

"Dead," he repeated, holding the tip of his sword to her throat.

She smacked the blade away, then spun on her back and hopped back to her feet.

"You're going to have to do better," Drakon said, turning his back to her. As expected, she fell for the obvious trap. He heard her quick footsteps, indicating that she ran towards him, before she leaped at him. Drakon waited a handful of seconds, then spun around, caught her by the throat, and slammed her into the deck.

She gasped for breath, and he said "When fighting a larger opponent, speed is key. Since you're smaller, you have avenues of attack that defeat my size and skill. You can't just come at me and expect to break through my defense; do the obvious, then surprise me with a different angle of attack."

He released his grip, and Arya breathed deeply before getting back to her feet.

"Again."

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Sansa's tears ran hot down her face. Her jaw quivered, and she sniffled, her breaths uneven.

Just a few days ago, there was reason to hope. Edric would have made peace with Jon, and the North would finally stabilize after years of war and betrayal. Margaery had given birth to a son, who she named Luthor after her grandfather. He had Edwyn's eyes, but every time she looked at the babe, Sansa could only see Edric.

Now, she stared down at his corpse.

Edric laid on a table in Maester Pyne's laboratory, dressed only in his smallclothes. The old Maester had let her see him after he finished cleaning the body. Edric's body contained many scars and bruises, some of them contributing to his death. His left thigh had a long gash from an axe wound, and he had three holes in his chest from the arrows and crossbow bolt Ludd Whitehill and his men had put into him.

Sansa only wished she could have killed Ludd. It would have given her much pleasure to have Brienne cut him in half. Only it would not.

Edric looked almost…peaceful. He wore no bandage over his eye, having finally come to terms with what Ramsay did to him. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back, and his beard was finely groomed. Her husband looked every bit the strong, noble lord he always wanted to be. Sansa stood over him, unable to stop crying for several minutes now. She thought she lost him in the Wolfswood, killed by one of Jon's men, only to discover he was still alive.

Why did the gods decide to spare him, only to take him from her in the next instant?

She touched a hand to her growing belly. Before long, her child would be born, and now she had to face the prospect of raising it herself. Sansa questioned whether she had the strength for it; looking back on her life, she always needed her mother and father both, not that she realized it at the time. Sansa could play the game well, dealing with nobles and knights and schemes, but raising a child was one of the hardest things in the world. Could she raise a strong, honourable son or a kind, wise daughter by herself?

The door creaked open, and Brienne entered. Behind her was Jon, the bruises from the ambush at the Wolfswood still visible. "Sansa," he said, his voice quiet. When she said nothing, he continued. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could go back. I wish—"

"Why did you have to fight?"

Jon stopped.

Sansa looked at him, her eyes red and puffy. "Why did you have to fight? Why couldn't you sit down and talk? Instead you let your pride and your bravado lead you into a war that didn't need to happen."

"As much as I want to go back and change things, I can't. It's done."

"You and half the North fought Edric and half the North. You fought a war over who should rule and which grudge was the most recent. My husband died because both of you were stupid! This is what happens when matters of honour and politics cause men to take up arms: families torn apart, husbands and brothers and fathers never coming home because they all want to prove who's stronger!"

Sansa broke down, sobbing, and Jon rushed to wrap his arms around her. She wept into his shoulder, and he said nothing, merely holding her tight.

"I want him back!" she croaked.

"I know," Jon said. There was nothing he could do or say to make her feel better. They stood there for some time, while Brienne kept a respectful silence. Eventually, Jon said "I should head back to the great hall. Many of the Northern lords still bear heavy grudges, and they all need to start working together. It's what Edric would have wanted."

Sansa nodded, wiping her eyes. "You go ahead. I'll stay a bit longer."

Jon nodded, then departed. As he walked out the door, Maester Pyne walked in, bowing his head. "My lady," he greeted solemnly.

"What can I do for you, Maester?" Sansa asked, sniffling.

"Before Lord Edric departed for the Wolfswood, he gave me this." The old man produced a letter from his robe, holding it out to her. "He wanted you to read it, in the event that he…"

"Never came home."

Maester Pyne nodded. "My lady," he said, bowing before closing the door behind him.

Sansa broke the black Direwolf seal on the letter, then unfolded it.

 _Sansa_

 _If all goes well, you'll never have to read this. But, should something happen to me, I want you to know how I truly feel._

 _I spent most of my life training to become a knight. My father plotted for twenty years to avenge his brother and see a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. On some level, I always knew I would become a lord, but I never expected to become Warden of the North at seventeen. I almost did not accept, until I met you._

 _I've loved you from the first moment I saw you, and I knew in that moment that I would accept my father's offer because it meant I could be with you. Those first few months were hard, knowing you were so guarded around me. I wished with all my soul that you could love me back. When you finally reciprocated my feelings, you cannot imagine how overjoyed I was. You were there to comfort me when my father died, and I hope that, in my own small way, I was there for you as you moved on from your past._

 _If you should be reading this letter, then I'm sorry I could not come home to you. I wish, more than anything, to see my child born. The day you told me you were pregnant was the happiest day of my life. I know you will be a wonderful mother, and I am certain our son or daughter will become a Lord or Lady of Winterfell that your ancestors would have been proud of._

 _If we have a boy, I want to call him Eddard. And if we have a girl, I want to call her Catelyn. I can think of no better names to give our child strength and courage. After all, your parents raised a brilliant, strong, beautiful daughter. If all goes well in the coming days, I will tell you this myself. If not, then I hope you can forgive me._

 _Love,_

 _Edric_

Sansa's tears fell on the parchment as she read its contents. When she finished, she held it against her chest, then leaned down and kissed Edric on the lips one last time. She stayed with her husband for the rest of the day, not wanting him to be alone.

* * *

 _ **Bitterbridge…**_

Edwyn pulled on the reins of his horse, stopping it. He held up a fist, and his soldiers stopped as well. 25,000 men had accompanied him from Highgarden, along with 8,000 Stormlanders that returned to Westeros with him from Meereen. More than twice the numbers of the Darklyte host, and Edwyn hoped that he had acted quickly enough to catch them off-guard.

He could see a field of tents outside Bitterbridge. Banners depicting the black flame on a blue background of House Darklyte. By his count, Edwyn figured that this was only a fraction of the enemy army. Probably just an advance force meant to secure the area before they marshaled their strength and advanced on King's Landing. The camp was situated next to the river, which created the perfect opportunity.

"Have the infantry form up and march on the camp," he told his commanders. "I'll lead a cavalry charge on their flanks."

His soldiers quickly formed, marching towards the enemy camp. The Darklyte forces mobilized in response, but they were outnumbered. Archers loosed arrow volleys, pikemen advanced, and both armies entered into a melee. As his infantry fought the enemy head-on, Edwyn drew his sword and shouted. The cavalry force behind him did the same, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. They charged towards the camp, causing the ground to quake all around them.

A few enemy soldiers tried to meet them head-on, but they were crushed in moments. Most of the Darklyte troops in the camp dropped their weapons on the ground and ran for their lives.

Edwyn slashed a Darklyte man across the neck, killing him in a single stroke. He kicked his horse, prompting it to ride faster. The cavalry force tore through soldiers and tents alike; they were an unstoppable horde that would trample all who opposed them under foot and hoof. Edwyn was finally redeeming himself for his past humiliations: tricked into killing his own Smallfolk in battle and poisoned by that Darklyte bitch, and before that when he spent weeks in a cell in Meereen. He would not dishonour his father's memory. He would not! Edwyn would not be the weak link in the Blackfyre dynasty.

A spear pierced his horse's chest. The animal shrieked in final agony, throwing Edwyn to the ground as it collapsed and barreled into a tent.

Edwyn shook his head, trying to make sense of events. Half his face was covered in dirt, while his knuckles burned with fresh scrapes. What the fuck just happened? He cast his gaze around the battlefield, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of his cavalry still fighting. With a start, he realized that he'd ridden well beyond his infantry.

A Darklyte soldier rushed him, swinging a sword. Shouting, Edwyn threw himself into the fight, blocking the man's initial strikes before gutting him like a roast pig.

"On me!" he called to his men.

Something slammed into his back, throwing him onto the ground. Edwyn rolled over to see a knight bearing the black Manticore crest of House Lorch standing over him, sword poised for a killing blow. A sword tip emerged from his throat, and the knight coughed blood, shock etched on his face. He collapsed, dead, revealing a ginger man mounted on a horse, sword tip covered in scarlet.

"My thanks, Ser Ronnet," Edwyn told the head of House Connington.

"Think nothing of it, my lord," the knight replied, dismounting and helping him stand. "Though, might I suggest sticking with your men? Less easy to murder you that way."

Edwyn snorted, wiping the dirt from his face.

The clamour of battle sounded closer, which meant Edwyn's men were winning the battle on the field. He only needed to force his way through the camp to meet them. From there, they would scour the area of any Darklyte forces. "With me, move!" he cried, walking towards the nearest group of enemy soldiers.

The fighting was fierce; for every inch of ground gained, the Darklytes made them pay for it. They fought with such surety that Edwyn begrudgingly respected them for it. In their place, he would have fought to the bitter end as well.

Burying his sword in a man's gut, Edwyn grabbed a spear and ran it through the throat of another. He was gripped with anger and righteous fury, unable to stop himself from killing every man he saw. Edwyn Blackfyre was not the weak link, and he would stamp out this rebellion once and for all in his father's name.

A startled cry drew his attention to the left, where he saw an impossibly tall warrior kill two Oakheart soldiers.

"Saernys," Edwyn hissed. "I want that miserable cunt alive!" he told his men.

They rushed towards her, weapons drawn. Saernys slashed her Valyrian Steel sword, cutting two men in the face. The weapon's tip cut through the metal helmets like soft butter, spattering blood on a nearby barrel. She parried the strike of a Blackfyre soldier, then drew a dagger with her free hand and drove it into the eye of another soldier.

Edwyn growled. He ran over to the nearest horse, pulling its rider to the ground and mounting it. He then kicked it into a charge, keeping his eyes focused on his nemesis. She parried another strike, but flinched from a cut to her leg, hindering her movement. Edwyn's horse smashed into her, and she fell backwards into a tent, collapsing it from her excessive height and the weight of her armour.

"Bind her!" Edwyn barked, pointing at her with his sword. His men piled onto the Darklyte woman, holding her arms and legs as Ser Ronnet Connington disarmed her of her Valyrian Steel sword. By the time he dismounted, his men were binding her wrists in rope. Edwyn sheathed his sword, then removed her helmet. "Your poison failed to kill me."

Saernys, her brown hair clinging to her forehead from sweat, looked at him with a casual expression. Even on her knees, she was tall enough to nearly look him in the eye. "It would seem you're made of sterner stuff than I thought." She glanced at the greater battle. "Well done on catching me unawares. You've proven yourself a capable commander."

"I've crushed your advance force," Edwyn said. "And with you as my hostage, your father will end his rebellion if he ever wants to see you again."

"Nothing is as it seems, Edwyn Blackfyre," she warned. "Greater men and women than you or I have fallen to lesser sins than glory mongering."

Edwyn clenched his teeth together. "Get her out of my sight."

* * *

Blackfyre soldiers tied Saernys to a post in a tent, but not before stripping her armour. She tried to resist when they took Dark Drinker, but all that got her was a punch to the face and a kick to the stomach. Once she was bound, one of them spat on her. They left her alone, standing guard outside the tent.

Saernys sat against the post, her body throbbing with pain. Her torso was covered in a field of dark bruises from being hit with a horse; even with armour on, that hurt. As the hours passed, and day morphed into night, Saernys replayed the events of the battle.

How in seven hells did Edwyn Blackfyre discern her location? He'd lead a sizeable army here in less than a week.

If all had gone according to plan, Saernys would have established an effective battlefield, one which she could lure the young Blackfyre into. Having drawn his army away and defeating him, she would simply waltz up to Highgarden and take the Reach's capital, securing its vast wealth. Now, those plans were stillborn. Thankfully, the majority of her army was elsewhere, securing more conscripts and resources for the war effort.

Saernys lost track of how long she remained tied to the post. The cut on her leg stung, and her many bruises ached.

Were those footsteps outside? Had Edwyn Blackfyre come to gloat further?

"I wish to see the prisoner."

That wasn't him. Someone else…

"I'm sorry, Ser," one of her guards said. "Lord Blackfyre's orders. No one's to see her without his express permission."

"Of course, of course," the first man said. "Good man."

Saernys heard a blade being drawn, then a squelch and a surprised gurgle. More commotion, then several _thumps_ as bodies hit the ground. The tent flap opened to reveal a husky man with a long red beard and long red hair. His tunic was emblazoned with twin griffins, white and red on opposite-coloured backgrounds. "My lady," Ser Ronnet Connington greeted, wiping his bloody knife on his sleeve.

"Took you bloody long enough," Saernys said.

The knight, accompanied by three men wearing his House's colours, cut her bonds. "Blackfyre caught us all by surprise. I didn't have sufficient time to warn you."

He helped Saernys to her feet. "How did he know to come here?"

"Said he had a dream about it while recovering from your poison."

Saernys nodded in understanding. "Of course…Dragon Dreams. I thought only full-blooded Dragons could have them."

"Regardless, we must get you to safety, my lady," Ser Ronnet said, gesturing to his men. "I've extended your offer to those knights and lords of the Stormlands willing to listen. Those that won't are being taken care of as we speak. Nearly all of the men of the Stormlands here will pledge their loyalty to you."

Saernys smiled. Sending secret missives to Ser Ronnet and the other Stormlands commanders had been a risky move, one that could have exposed her position, but the fruit it bore was oh so sweet. Ser Ronnet handed her Dark Drinker in its sheath. Saernys kissed the handle of the weapon, relieved to have her family's ancestral weapon back; she would never forgive herself if she lost it to her enemies.

"Excellent. You will be well rewarded, I can assure you. Now, time to breath some fire, I think."

They walked out of the tent, the Connington men brandishing swords and torches. One of them waved a torch, signalling other sympathizers. All around them, men loyal to House Blackfyre of Highgarden were stabbed or had their throats slit. Torches were held to the bottoms of tents, which quickly caught flame. It was several minutes before the first alarms rang, and by then the camp was in full chaos.

Saernys drew Dark Drinker, partaking in the bloody anarchy. After suffering such a humiliating defeat, it felt good to strike back against her enemies in so deadly a fashion. The Stormlanders joined her family for a number of reasons: vengeance for their murdered liege lord, Stannis Baratheon, opportunistic greed, or genuine trust that her House was a better bet than the remaining Blackfyres. Whatever the reason, she now had thousands of reinforcements to her family's cause.

"There!" Ser Ronnet cried, pointing.

Saernys noticed what he saw: Edwyn Blackfyre and a retinue of guards fighting through a thicket of Darklyte sympathizers. Her first thought was to strike at him now, cut off the head of her enemy's army. But a quick glance showed her that the Blackfyre forces were mobilizing. They still outnumbered her troops over three to one.

"Leave him," she said. "We need to get out of here, now. Retreat to Ashford!"

With all haste, Saernys and whatever Darklyte soldiers remained, plus the 8,000 men of the Stormlands, fought their way out of the Blackfyre camp. They rode hard for a day and night, reaching the safety of Ashford. Saernys allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, letting a Maester treat her injuries and the servants draw her a bath. Two days after being defeated and captured, she retired to her chambers, resting on freshly cleaned sheets.

Her comfort was shattered when a raven arrived, bearing a message.

It was from Gae. Saernys tore the letter open, eager to hear news of how he'd secured the services of the mighty Golden Company. With them fighting for the Darklyte cause, Westeros would submit in a matter of months.

Instead, what she read pierced her heart with a bolt of shock, disbelief, and more than a bit of fear. Her brother's letter contained a single sentence, but it was enough to change the entire war for her family's ascendance to the throne.

 _Drakon Blackfyre lives._

* * *

 _ **King's Landing…**_

"Are you prepared to devote yourself fully to the gods? To place yourself at their whims?"

The High Sparrow looked down at the young man lying prostrate before him. Like so many others in the past months, he had been divinely inspired by the Seven to mete out their judgement. Hundreds of the faithful were gathered in the Sept of Baelor; the Faith Militant, garbed in black and armed with sword and mace, and countless nobles who held true to the faith.

"I am, Holiness," the young man replied. "I wish to be guided by the Seven in this life, so that I may join them in the next."

The High Sparrow smiled. "And so it shall be." He nodded to members of the Faith Militant, who grabbed the young man and held him by the arms. One of them drew a knife and, holding the young man by the neck, began to carve the seven-pointed star into his forehead.

The legions of the faithful had risen in King's Landing, and the people were finally free of sin. The incestuous, black-hearted queen had fled, unable to face the consequences of her blasphemy. The High Sparrow had done good work in the capital, and soon, he would see that the corruption and depravity were cleansed. All the sinners in all the kingdoms would be purged, by sword and by fire, starting with the blasphemous king and queen's children. The offspring of sin could not be allowed to live and spread their taint. The light of the Seven would shine on them for eternity.

They all froze as a monstrous roar thundered from the heavens.

* * *

There it was.

After being absent for over a year, Drakon had finally returned to King's Landing. The city looked normal from the outside, but he knew that within festered the rotten disease of rebellion. Many had grown bold with news of his demise, and this was only one place of many that rose up against him.

Drakon would purge the corruption with fire.

"I haven't been here in so long," Arya said as she stood beside him.

"I grew up here. King Aerys had me confined to the lower levels of the Red Keep like a dirty secret he wanted kept from his enemies. I moved through the tunnels and sewers like a rat forbidden from seeing the light of the sun."

She looked up at him. "Now you descend on them as a mighty Dragon."

"Yes." Drakon walked down to the deck, where the soldiers of the Golden Company stood, perfectly assembled. The entire company was prepared on every ship, ready to dispense the king's justice. Rhaegon and Maelion flew over King's Landing, their roars announcing the return of the rightful king. Drakon walked over to Harry, who stood by one of the boats. "Take back my city," he commanded. "Kill anyone who stands in your way."

"Yes, Your Grace," Harry said, bowing. He then put on his helmet and said to his men "Take the city in the name of your king!"

The soldiers raised their spears and shouted twice, then began boarding the boats. Flagbearers signaled the other ships, relaying the order, and soon dozens of boats rowed towards the docks and the shore. They were underway in minutes, speaking to the efficiency the company was infamous for. Drakon stood at the ship's bow, Arya, Ser Loras, and Samwell by his side, staring out at his advancing army.

As the boats neared the shore, they were sporadically fired on by archers along the walls. Evidently, many of the Goldcloaks were involved in this rebellion. The arrows did no serious harm, however, as the soldiers on the boats raised shields. Between that and their fine armour, only a handful of men died or suffered injuries. They soon reached the shore, and the soldiers hopped onto the sand before forming into groups. Their officers called for shields, and they raised them to create shield walls.

The formations slowly marched towards the walls, fired on the whole way. Like Stannis Baratheon, Drakon directed his army to strike at the Mud Gate. Unlike Stannis, he would not face the sudden appearance of Lannister and Tyrell cavalry.

King's Landing would submit, and all those who resisted would die.

The soldiers of the Golden Company reached the walls, where the traitorous Goldcloaks threw large rocks at them. Their shields held, and many ran ladders over to their comrades. Many archers crouched by the boats and fired arrows of their own at the men atop the battlements, diverting attention away from the infantry. Men began to climb the ladders one after another, and many died when rocks struck their face or arrows pierced their necks or underarms.

A second wave of boats soon beached, and one of them bore a large battering ram. It had been carved during the voyage from Braavos, and its head was in the shape of a Dragon. Once the ram was at the gate, a half-dozen men were quick to begin hammering the Mud Gate.

Drakon watched the siege proceed, his eyes scanning the extent of the engagement. He had recruited many of the Goldcloaks himself, back in the days before his assumption of the throne. But as skilled as they were, their experience was limited to dealing with angry drunks and the odd murderer. Here, they faced the most disciplined soldiers in the world, and they stood no chance. Within minutes, the Mud Gate burst open, and his soldiers started pouring through the breach.

With a smile on his face, he said to the others "Come, let's go ashore."

The four of them, plus Nymeria, boarded the last remaining boat. By the time they disembarked, most of the initial landing force was within the city walls. As Drakon passed through the Mud Gate, he looked down at the corpses lining the courtyard. The majority of them were Goldcloaks.

"Rewarded as traitors deserve," he spat. There was no way Ser Hugo could have betrayed him, so his old friend was either imprisoned or dead. Both options saddened Drakon, but he did not let that eat at his resolve.

Now within the streets of King's Landing, the Golden Company soldiers formed into tight phalanxes. In some areas, they walked up to five men abreast, while some had to walk single file through tighter alleys. They were met by Sparrows wearing long, black wool shirts with chains wrapped around and wielding anything from clubs to swords. The fanatics simply walked towards the phalanxes, unafraid to face certain death, all the while chanting phrases from the Seven-Pointed Star.

For their part, the Golden Company soldiers halted, driving their spears into the enemy's front ranks and gutting several men at a time. The soldiers in the rear would fire arrows, softening up their targets for the pikemen.

Every time the phalanxes would halt, they would all cry "Beneath the gold," kill several fanatics, then finish with "The bitter steel!" The company's motto echoed through the streets of King's Landing as the Sparrows were trampled underfoot. "Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"

The Dragons intervened a few times. One particular unit of the Golden Company faced a large gathering of Sparrows. Rhaegon landed on a building behind them and doused them in Dragonfire. They roasted in seconds, burned to ash. Even their weapons, some of which were the finest steel in King's Landing, melted into nothing. Along the Street of Silk, Maelion dipped his head between the buildings and chomped on a Sparrow, feasting on him before dispersing the man's comrades with a tail swipe.

Drakon and his companions calmly strode through the streets, passing by the corpses of defeated Sparrows and traitorous Goldcloaks. This purge was meant to be final, and hopefully the memory of it would discourage similar acts for another century.

They came close to the Sept of Baelor, and Drakon looked down at Arya. "Care to test your new skills?"

She smiled, drawing her Valyrian Steel dagger and running off into the shadows.

Drakon resumed walking. Another turn would take him to the Sept. He drew Blackfyre and Dark Sister, swinging them to get a feel after such a long recovery. "I need to kill something," he said. Rounding a corner, he came within sight of the Sept of Baelor, where his troops converged. The remaining Sparrows were assembled on the stairs leading to the great structure, armed and prepared for a final stand.

Drakon would have it no other way.

He led the charge, along with Samwell and Ser Loras. The Golden Company surged forward, smashing into the Sparrows, and a fierce struggle erupted. Drakon swung his Valyrian Steel swords with the grace of a ribbon dancer, cleaving through flesh and bone with laughable ease. Between his skill and significant strength advantage, none could survive even a single blow. Samwell cleaved men in half with Brightroar while Nymeria tore open throats or bit into ankles to create openings, and Ser Loras demonstrated ample skill with his blade.

Sparing a glance at the Sept, Drakon saw the High Sparrow watching the battle unfold, guarded by seven Sparrows. The old man glared at him, but given that his forces were being slaughtered, his wrath was impotent.

As they neared the High Sparrow, Drakon noticed a tall, severe-looking Septa approaching him. She had the demeanor of a military officer rather than the gentle-yet-firm Septas Drakon had known. She stood beside the High Sparrow, appraising the battlefield with a stern gaze. As Drakon carved a Sparrow from groin to neck, spilling the man's guts onto the steps, he saw the Septa whisper something in the High Sparrow's ear. The old man looked at her, shock written on his face.

The Septa drew the Valyrian Steel dagger.

The seven Sparrows barely had time to draw their weapons before the tall woman slashed and stabbed them in short order. She then grabbed her chin and pulled her face off, revealing Arya Stark's face. The little wolf held her dagger to the High Sparrow's throat.

Covered in blood, Drakon ascended the steps until he was face-to-face with his former ally while his troops rounded up the remaining Sparrows. "It seems your gods have abandoned you."

"They are with me, always. The Seven reward those with the strength to fight for what is sacred."

Drakon shook his head. "So sanctimonious, even at the end. You and your fanatics drove my family away, plunged this city into chaos. For what? Holiness? Justice?"

"Your children were born out of sin," the High Sparrow spat, his eyes burning with disgust. "To allow them to live would have been a greater offence to the gods than anything you or your sister have done."

Drakon headbutted the old man, hearing the _crack_ of his nose breaking. The High Sparrow stumbled backwards, but Arya stilled him.

"Thank you, High Sparrow," Drakon said, his tone even. "Thank you for showing me what I needed to see. The Faith of the Seven has long bound the realm in a shared belief. It has unified our people and continues to provide comfort to the millions who call Westeros home. But not for me. You have showed me that your gods have no say in a king's matters. Therefore, I, Drakon of the House Blackfyre, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Father of Dragons, do sentence you and your followers to death. I also condemn the Great Sept of Baelor to be demolished. From this day forth, the Faith of the Seven shall no longer be the official faith of the royal family and the realm."

"You would profane this holy place by spilling the blood of the faithful and tearing down these stones?"

Rhaegon and Maelion landed on buildings on either side of the steps leading to the Sept. Together, they roared, baring their arm-long teeth to those who rebelled against their father.

"I had something more…immediate in mind," Drakon said with a smirk. The High Sparrow's look of horror gave him distinct pleasure. "Take His Holiness and the rest of his Sparrows inside, then chain them to the statues of their precious Seven." Arya and the men of the Golden Company complied with the order, imprisoning the fanatics in their sanctum.

Once his troops were clear of the structure, Drakon made his way to the bottom of the steps. He then pointed at the Sept with Blackfyre and cried "Dracarys!"

Rhaegon and Maelion reared their heads back, then breathed large plumes of Dragonfire. The Great Sept of Baelor, constructed by Drakon's ancestor centuries ago, was consumed. The flames danced across the stone structure as the roof and walls collapsed under the unstoppable force of the Dragons' breath. Within minutes, it was nothing more than a pile of rubble that belched a black smoke cloud into the sky.

With the city secure, Drakon and his companions rode to the Red Keep. Golden Company soldiers marched through the streets, while the Smallfolk cautiously peered out their windows and doors. Some openly cheered his return, but most were quiet. They feared him, particularly his army and his Dragons. When he came within sight of the Red Keep, Drakon stopped. He felt his heart skip a beat, and all breath left his lungs as a chill pierced his gut.

Hanging atop the main gate of the keep was Rona.

Her clothes were in tatters, her body covered in blisters and sores. Rona's face, once handsome and calculating, was unrecognizable amid blackened burns and melted skin.

"Did you know her?" Arya asked.

"Yes," Drakon replied. "She was my best friend. She introduced me to my first wife."

"Someone has betrayed you, Your Grace," Samwell said. "That is the only explanation."

Drakon nodded. "Yes. Whomever that person is, I will make them suffer a thousand deaths." Turning to Jon Connington, he said "Cut her down. We will give her a proper burial once order is restored."

Within the Red Keep, Drakon found a welcoming of sorts in the throne room. Lady Olenna and her son Mace stood by the Iron Throne. Ser Bronn, Tyrion Lannister's former enforcer, paced by the doors. Simon was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Ser Hugo. As Visenya had fled the city, Drakon guessed the remainder of the Kingsguard were with her and their children.

"Your Grace," Ser Bronn said as soon as Drakon walked into the room. "Your wife and I had an arrangement, and that—"

"She made you Lord Commander of the City Watch."

The knight paused, then said "Aye, she did."

"I take it that Ser Hugo is dead. He would never have allowed the Sparrows to cause such chaos otherwise." When the knight nodded, Drakon said "This day extracts a heavy toll."

"Yes, it does, Your Grace. Now, about the arrangement I had with—"

Drakon held up a finger, and Ser Bronn stopped talking. "You will be compensated for loyal service, that I can assure you. I will even allow you to keep your appointment as Lord Commander of the City Watch. So long as you refrain from speaking another word in my presence until I bid you to speak. I find myself lacking the patience required to deal with talkative fools."

He left the knight to think, approaching the Tyrell matriarch and her oaf of a son. "Well, it seems no one truly stays dead anymore," Lady Olenna quipped. "When we heard you'd fallen a great height from your Dragon, we thought that was that. Imagine our surprise."

"It gladdens me to know that you cared so much, my lady," Drakon said sardonically. "I thought my return home would be a joyous occasion, and yet I learn that two of my most trustworthy friends and allies have been murdered. What do you have to say to that?"

"Your Grace, I—" Mace Tyrell started to say.

"I was talking to your mother, not you."

The heavyset man shut his mouth, while the Lady Olenna said "It's all rather unfortunate. Ser Hugo found himself the victim of corruption in his own ranks, while Rona was burned alive with Wildfire in a Black Cell after she'd been found guilty of treason."

"Treason?" Drakon asked. "Impossible."

"Yet it was discovered that she was responsible for spreading rumours about your wife. Rumours that she is secretly your sister, and your children are therefore born of incest."

Drakon narrowed his eyelids, taking a step towards the old woman. "Take care, my lady."

She waved it off. "Oh, it really doesn't matter much anymore. Before any kind of sentence could be carried out, Rona was murdered in her cell. The next day, Simon Groat was nowhere to be found. It seems he has left the city."

"Simon. That greedy little worm." Drakon cast his gaze about the throne room, glancing at the skulls of the Targaryen Dragons before his eyes settled on the Iron Throne. "Retaking King's Landing was only the first step. Apparently, much of my realm has rebelled against my rule. There needs to be correction, a restoration of balance. Tomorrow we convene the Small Council. Until then, you are all dismissed." Everyone, apart from Ser Loras, walked out of the throne room. "Arya," Drakon said, turning to look at the Stark girl. "Come with me."

He led her through the halls of the Red Keep, past loyal Goldcloaks and Golden Company soldiers. "Where are we going?" she asked him.

"Rona has been my spymaster for decades. She kept a trove of my most important secrets. If Simon has betrayed me, then he was bought by a rival. Any rival who knew enough to turn him would know that the information she collected could be used against me."

They soon arrived at Rona's office. The door was cracked open, and when Drakon opened it, he saw that the room had been torn upside down. The desk was overturned, the shelves broken and their contents spilled over the floor, and pages had been torn from all the books. Most of it was rather trivial, mere bits and pieces of information regarding the Great Houses and those lords and ladies worth spying on. The real prize was hidden under a floor tile, behind the desk.

It was open.

"No, no, no…" Drakon said, kneeling beside the tile as he reached into the empty space it formerly covered. There was nothing, no scrolls or letters. All of it was gone.

"I'm guessing they have your secrets," Arya said.

"We need to get to the Twins."

"The Twins? Why?"

Drakon looked at her and replied "Because your brother Rickon is there, and his life is now in danger." Less than half an hour later, Drakon and Arya mounted Rhaegon's back as the silver and gold Dragon soared away from the capital.

* * *

 _ **Meereen…**_

Daenerys, still dressed in her Dothraki outfit, stood in front of her throne. At the base of the steps, two of the horse-lords held Daario by the shoulders, their Arakhs drawn.

Olene, standing beside the queen, frowned. She leaned close to Daenerys and said "Your Grace, what is this about? Has Daario done something wrong?"

"Not something. Everything."

The Braavosi took a step back, looking down at her comrade. She found it hard to believe that he would betray their queen, given how devoted he was. Daario, just like Ser Jorah, was in love with her. Love made men do stupid things, but treason? Olene and the others were still basking in their victory over the Masters and the Sons of the Harpy. Finally, Slaver's Bay was freed from the yoke of tyranny.

"Your Grace," Daario said, "if I have offended you, then—"

"Offense is one word for it," Tyrion interjected. "Another would be treason. Betrayal. Self-interest."

"I wasn't talking to you, dwarf!" Daario spat.

"That's enough!" The throne room grew silent, and all eyes turned to the queen, who looked furious. "Do you deny that you helped found the Sons of the Harpy, and were responsible for all the atrocities they committed in my city?"

"What? Of course I deny it! How could you even think that I…" Daario trailed off, then looked at Tyrion. "You believe him? He's only been here a short time; I've been with you longer. I claimed Yunkai in your name, I fought the Masters' Champion in your name."

"And yet, you claimed to lead the Sons of the Harpy in the Masters' name," Lord Varys said. "You made them believe you wanted our queen dead, that you were a simple Sellsword who would do their bidding if paid well enough. You certainly had us fooled, for a time."

Daario looked up at the queen. "You're really going to listen to all this? After everything I've done for you?"

"Everything you've done for me?" Daenerys asked, incredulous. "You betrayed me, facilitated the murder of hundreds of my subjects, and you expect me to be grateful?"

"None of them matter. Not one of them." Daario tried to stand, but one of the Dothraki elbowed him in the face while the other kicked him in the leg. He fell back to his knees. "You are all that matters. You are a queen. You are a conqueror. The Masters, the slaves, the Westerosi, they are all nothing before you. What does it matter if some of them die on your path to glory?"

Olene's mouth fell open. How could he be so callous, after everything he had seen? How could he expect the queen to agree with him?

For her part, the queen looked remarkably calm. But Olene knew her well enough to recognize the simmering volcano of rage bubbling inside her. "You claim to fight in my name, and yet you've learned nothing about what I stand for. I kill only my enemies, those who would grow fat and rich on the backs of others. I aim to free, not to enslave or murder. You seem to have lost sight of that."

"I love you," Daario said. "From the first moment I saw you, I loved you. All that mattered in this world was you and me. If a few slaves had to die, then so what? I gave you all the incentive in the world to exterminate the Masters for good."

The queen stood up and slowly walked down the steps. Olene was close by, a hand on her rapier.

"You betrayed me," she said, her voice soft yet burning. "You had my citizens and soldiers slaughtered like animals in the streets, all the while feigning loyalty. You went behind my back to attack Drakon Blackfyre, starting a war that devastated this city. Everything you have done has harmed me and my allies."

"Daenerys, I love you—"

"Love? This is not love. All you understand is what makes you feel better, regardless of how others feel. You grew up surviving the Fighting Pits and became a Sellsword by being selfish and never exercising true loyalty to anyone. There are those whose love is unconditional, who would lay down their lives for others without regard for themselves. That is love, Daario Neharis. That is something you will never understand."

The queen turned to look at Olene, who nodded at the unspoken command. The Braavosi stepped forward, drawing her rapier.

Daario smirked. "I'll make sure to give Kovarro my—"

Olene drove her rapier through the Sellsword's lying mouth and through the back of his skull. She withdrew the blade and sheathed it in one clean motion, and the Dothraki released their grip as Daario's corpse slumped onto the floor.

Olene looked back at the queen, who sneered at her traitorous advisor before turning around and walking away.

* * *

Later, the queen met with Tyrion in her chambers. The relief of victory was still clouded with the revelation of Daario's betrayal. They shared a pitcher of wine, and after an intolerable silence, Tyrion said "I know that was difficult. Executing a man you've known for years. But if it's any consolation, you made his death quick, not drawn out and agonizing like your father would have done."

"It's not," the queen said dryly.

"No, I suppose not. I'm terrible at consoling."

The queen smirked. "Yes, you really are."

"Alright. How about the fact that this is actually happening? You have your armies. You have your ships. You have your Dragons. Everything you've ever wanted since you were old enough to want anything. It's all yours for the taking. Are you afraid?"

Olene saw the queen nod.

"Good. You're in the Great Game now, and the Great Game is terrifying. The only people who aren't afraid of failure are madmen like your father, or tyrants like Drakon Blackfyre."

The queen gave him a heavy look. "Do you know what frightens me? I ordered the death of a man who loved me. A man I thought I cared for. And I felt nothing."

"He wasn't the first to love you, and he won't be the last."

"Drakon Blackfyre is many things. A murderer. A conqueror. A Dragon. When we were held captive by the Dothraki, I got the chance to know him. There were moments when I saw what Ser Barristan saw: a proud, strong man who wanted to escape the shadow of his father, whose true self died with Rhaegar." When Tyrion gave her a disapproving look, she added "That doesn't excuse his theft of my throne. But now, having spent time with him…He and I are not so different. We have both ordered the deaths of hundreds, burned people with our Dragons, and were sired by evil men who wanted to see the world burn. He is the only other person of Targaryen blood in the world, the only other relative I have left."

Olene shared a glance with Tyrion, who said "I understand your reticence. Kinslaying is, after all, a grievous offense. But he stands in the path of your throne, your family's throne. You know, better than most, that ruling requires difficult, often bloody and unpleasant, decisions."

"Well," the queen said, standing, "you have completely failed to console me."

"For what it's worth…I've been a cynic for as long as I can remember. Everyone's always asking me to believe in things: family, gods, kings, myself. It was often tempting, until I saw where belief got people. So, I said 'no, thank you!' to belief. And yet, here I am." He stood and added "I believe in you. It's embarrassing, really. I'd swear you my sword, but I don't actually own a sword."

The queen smirked. "It's your counsel I need."

"It's yours, now and always."

"Good." The queen reached into the folds of her dress and took out a metal brooch. "I, um…I had something made for you. I'm not sure if it's right." She pinned the brooch to his jacket. "Tyrion Lannister, I name you Hand of the Queen."

Tyrion looked at the ground, appearing to be at the point of tears. How sad his life must have been, Olene thought, that the notion of someone showing faith in him produced such a strong reaction. He then knelt before her, affirming the loyalty of the world's smartest dwarf to the world's best queen.

* * *

"The last time we saw each other was at Winterfell, yes?" Tyrion asked. "You were the Starks' ward, and I was a drunken lecher."

He stood at Queen Daenerys' right, while Olene stood to her left. With the Second Siege of Meereen finished, a sense of normalcy had returned to the city. Unsullied stood along the edge of the throne room while the queen received her guests. Yara and Theon Greyjoy were from Westeros, like Tyrion, only they belonged to the Ironborn. They were both garbed in grey armour with a yellow kraken emblazoned on the chest piece.

"That was a long time ago," Theon said. Though he stood tall and straight, his demeanor was quiet and reserved like a small child, or a beat dog careful not to anger its master.

"It was," Tyrion agreed. "And how have things been going for you since then?"

Theon said nothing.

"Not so well, I gather. Can't imagine you would have murdered the Stark boys if things had been going well."

"I didn't murder the Stark boys. But I did things that were just as bad, or worse."

"And he paid for them," Yara said, coming to his defense.

Tyrion nodded. "It was complicated for you, I'm sure, growing up in Winterfell. Never quite knowing who you were. But then, we all live complicated lives, don't we?"

"Edwyn Blackfyre and Randyll Tarly came here searching for you and your ships," the queen said. "It led to a series of…unfortunate events."

"Oh, we know," Yara said. "They chased us all the way from the Iron Islands. Unfortunately for them, the Ironborn have always been better sailors."

"Until Stannis Baratheon smashed the Iron Fleet during your father's rebellion," Tyrion reminded her.

She gave him a brief glare, but did not argue the point.

"You've brought us 100 ships from the Iron Fleet," the queen said. "With men to sail them. In return, I expect you want me to support your claim to the throne of the Iron Islands?"

"Not my claim. Hers."

Olene glanced at the queen, who sat back in slight surprise. "And what's wrong with you?"

"I'm not fit to rule," Theon replied.

"Has the Iron Islands ever had a queen before?"

Yara shook her head. "No more than Westeros."

The queen smirked.

"Drakon Blackfyre chased us out of the Iron Islands," Theon said. "Then, we learned that our Uncle Euron returned home after a long absence. Both of them will murder us the first chance they get."

Olene stiffened at the mention of her lover's murderer.

"Lord Tyrion tells me your father was a terrible king."

"You and I have that in common," Yara said.

"We do. And both were murdered by usurpers, as well. Tell me, in return for supporting your claim to your family's throne, you want to have Drakon Blackfyre killed?"

"We want our home back," Yara clarified. "It was stolen from us, first by Drakon and then by our uncle. We were driven out, hunted across the world because of the actions of our father. All we want is to take it back. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Yes, I can," the queen agreed. She turned to Tyrion and asked "Will their ships be enough?"

The dwarf thought it over, then replied "With the former Masters' fleet…possibly. Barely."

"I think I can help with that."

All eyes turned to the throne room's entrance, where Lord Varys strode in. A young man walked beside him, dark-skinned and handsome, with curly black hair.

"Lord Varys?" the queen prompted.

"Apologies for the interruption, Your Grace, but I thought you might like to meet someone. While I must confess that I did not sway as many in Westeros to your cause as I'd hoped, there was one important friend I made. His emissary has come to speak with you."

The young man stepped forward. "My name is Trystane Martell, son of Prince Doran. My aunt, Princess Elia, was your brother's wife. Their children were my cousins. Our Houses were joined through sacred oath, and my father wishes to renew that bond. Long have we waited for the rightful heir to the Iron Throne to take her place." He drew his sword, and Daenerys held up a hand to stop the Unsullied who leveled their spears. Trystane knelt at the foot of the steps leading to the throne and, holding out his sword, said "Dorne is yours, my queen."

Olene smiled. Already she could envision the queen's army trampling Drakon Blackfyre's forces underfoot. Her vengeance would be close at hand.

"I feel I should point out that the young Prince brought the entire Dornish fleet with him," Lord Varys said, a satisfied smile on his face. "His father has spent decades building it."

The queen stood, then walked over to Yara. She glanced at Tyrion, then said "Our fathers were evil men, all of us. They left the world worse than they found it. We're not going to do that. We're going to leave the world better than we found it. You will support my claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. In return, you will be made Queen of the Iron Islands. The sovereignty of your lands will be respected, so long as you swear to never rebel against me or my people."

Yara nodded, then held out her arm. The queen glanced at Tyrion, who nodded. She grasped her arm, and they sealed their pact.

* * *

 _ **The Water Gardens…**_

Visenya held her newborn son. She had given birth on the ship as it sailed south, labouring for a full day. The babe slept soundly as she held him, while his older sister and brother were held by handmaidens. Visenya chose to name him Maelys, after her and Drakon's father. With a name like that, he would grow to be a strong warrior, a champion of House Blackfyre.

The carriage shook as it ran over a bump in the road. Maelys began to fuss, and Visenya whispered to him in Valyrian.

They had been riding from the docks for some time, and their destination was not far off. Prince Doran was expecting her, and Visenya fully expected him to show her the deference afforded to the queen. He was a loyal vassal of the Iron Throne, unlike the Darklytes and the traitorous Houses that joined them. No matter; the survival of Visenya and her children was paramount, while the rest of Westeros could burn for all she cared.

The carriage started to slow, and Visenya gazed out the carriage window. The Water Gardens were said to be one of the most beautiful places in all of Westeros. Seeing it with her own eyes, Visenya felt compelled to agree. The architecture was stunning, so unlike anything in the other six kingdoms, with pools of crystal blue water shaded by tall palm trees and surrounded by pristine hedge mazes. House Martell men-at-arms stood guard at all the entrances, most carrying sharp spears.

The carriage came to a stop, and the driver hopped down before opening the door. Visenya stepped out into the open, standing as straight and regal as she could. She was the queen, after all. Obedience was expected.

A Martell soldier approached her and her handmaidens. "Your Grace," he greeted, his accent smooth and exotic. "Prince Doran welcomes you. He has sent me to escort you to him."

"By all means, do," Visenya replied. The four Kingsguard formed around her and her children, their midnight Blackfyre armour in stark contrast with the bright, warm colours surrounding them. The three Sand Snakes walked behind them

The soldier led them through the expansive gardens and courtyards. Once inside the palace, they soon entered a grand reception area. The walls were awash with intricate tiles and decorations, and a number of couches were arranged in parallel around a glass table with wooden legs carved in the shape of coiled serpents.

In the centre of one couch sat Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear. He was a thin man, in his mid-fifties, dressed in a fine silk robe that left part of his chest exposed. That seemed to be common for Dornish men's fashion. His beard was finely trimmed, and his fingers bore several jeweled rings. He had a warm, welcoming smile.

Beside him sat his daughter, Arianne. The young woman, in her early twenties, was curvaceous and beautiful, dressed in shimmering silk and fine jewels. She was nowhere near as beautiful as Visenya, of course, but for a Dornish woman, she was well above her peers.

A large, imposing man stood behind them. His bald, black head almost glimmered in the sunlight, and he wielded a long, magnificent spear in one hand. Areo Hotah, Prince Doran's bodyguard.

"Your Grace," Prince Doran greeted. "Welcome to the Water Gardens."

Visenya sat on the opposite couch. "Thank you for receiving us, Prince Doran."

"I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Maelys cooed in Visenya's arms, and she let him grasp her finger in his tiny hands. "Pleasant enough. I only wish my husband were alive to see his second son born."

"Yes. Having a child is life's greatest joy," Prince Doran said, patting his daughter on the knee. "My own son, Trystane, is sailing abroad, adventuring like his uncle Oberyn used to. He has grown into a fine young man."

Visenya smiled. In truth, she cared little for the Dornishman and his family, as long as they showed her the respect she was owed. "Your hospitality is most appreciated. The civil strife we face is unfortunate, but as long as my son Daemon grows to become king, that will not matter."

"I am sorry to say that your son will not become king."

Visenya's eyes widened in shock. "What did you say?"

"I am happy to host you and your children in the Water Gardens, but I cannot allow you to leave. You will be cared for, and your children given a life that very few on this continent get to enjoy. But I am afraid your family's claim to the Iron Throne has come to its end."

Visenya shot to her feet, and the Kingsguard gripped their swords tightly. "You treasonous cur! Were my husband alive, he would have you—"

She stopped as a young woman entered the reception area. She was no older than twenty, with long, flowing golden hair that ran down to her back. The girl wore a golden dress that left her upper chest exposed, and around her neck she wore a necklace depicting a golden lion.

"Forgive me, Prince Doran," the girl said. "I did not know you had guests."

"There's no need to apologize, Myrcella," he said. "I was simply extending my hospitality to Lady Blackfyre and her children."

Visenya felt herself boiling with raw hatred. "You let this Lannister bitch live?" She turned to the Sand Snakes and said "You told me she was dead!"

Obara shared a shocked glance with her sisters, then replied "We thought she was!" The Sand Snake leader glared at Doran and demanded "Why did you not tell us?"

"I did not tell you because you did not need to know," he replied coldly. "My son deserves happiness, and she makes him happy."

Visenya looked at Ser Eustace and hissed "Kill her!"

The Kingsguard drew his sword, but before he could take two steps, Areo Hotah suddenly appeared. He parried a sword slash in one move, then beheaded the knight in another with a single swing of his spear. Ser Eustace's head rolled across the floor, stopping by Visenya's feet.

"Unlike you, Your Grace," Prince Doran said, uttering the last words with disgust, "we do not murder children."

"My brother was on his way to the Wall," Myrcella Baratheon said. "He would have lived, but you had him killed!"

"He was a Lannister," Visenya spat. "All of Drakon's enemies needed to die, and allowing Tommen to live was a moment of weakness. I did what needed to be done so my husband could rule as he was meant to! All of you are pathetic; you're nothing before me. I am the Queen of Westeros!"

"No, you are not," Prince Doran countered. "Daenerys Targaryen is the rightful queen. I admit, your husband would have made a great king. But too often, great kings sit on thrones of skulls before lakes of blood. The time has come for a wise, kind ruler to sit on the Iron Throne."

Martell soldiers surrounded them, taking the Kingsguard and Sand Snake weapons. "You will pay for letting that Lannister girl live, Prince Doran. I promise you."

"It was not I who spared her life and kept her here for her own safety, thought I would have done that regardless."

"Then who was it?" Visenya demanded.

"Your husband."

Visenya felt the colour draining from her face, and she could think of nothing more to say as she and her companions were escorted away, prisoners of the traitorous Martells.

* * *

 _ **The Cockleswent River…**_

Saernys didn't know why her brother felt so disturbed by Euron Greyjoy. After all, the man was just another pirate, one of a thousand men who'd chosen to sail the seas and plunder what they could. The King of the Iron Islands, whatever quirks he had, was a powerful ally. They would need him to conquer Westeros.

After riding in a longboat with him for two days, Saernys understood why Gae was so unsettled.

Euron never seemed to sleep. When Saernys awoke each morning, she found him the same way she had left him the night before: leaning against the port railing, staring into the water below. She thought only having one eye would limit his vision, as she heard it did for Edric Blackfyre, but not so with the pirate lord. He acted as if he still had both eyes, which made Saernys curious as to what the eye beneath the eyepatch looked like.

"Do you hear them?" he asked as she approached. The same question for two days.

"Hear what?"

Euron looked at her, his visible eye almost gleaming as his blue-stained lips curled in a smile. "The spirits of water. We're far from the sea, but I still hear them whispering in my mind."

Saernys glanced over the edge of the longboat. As always, all she saw was the river and the surrounding countryside. Looking back at Euron, she asked "These…spirits. What are they?"

"They are ancient, my Lady Darklyte. Very ancient. Older than the First Men, the Children of the Forest, and even the first Dragonlords. The black depths of the ocean is where they make their home. Not quite Man, nor Creature of the Deep, they pray to forces that shaped this world. They know I follow the Drowned God like no other, and they lend me their strength so one of pure faith can return them to glory."

Saernys recognized the entities he spoke of. The Darklytes prided themselves on their familiarity with arcane lore, and part of her education as a child included stories about the ancient races. Among them were the Deep Ones, foul, half-fish, half-human folk who lurked in the world's oceans to harass and kidnap human victims.

"How do you know these spirits are real?" Saernys asked cautiously. "How are they any different from the Seven or the Old Gods?"

"Because I've met them, my lady. I fed many sailors from ships I captured to them while at sea."

Saernys shivered.

Euron looked down at the water, lost in his world of horrors and monsters. The man was insane, there was no doubt about it. Years spent sailing the seas among mutes, drinking Shade of the Evening, had rotted his mind away, leaving nothing but a black expanse within his skull. Once this was all over, he would have to be eliminated; Saernys knew her family could not afford to let such a madman live to haunt them down the road.

But for now, they needed him.

Saernys' thoughts turned to Drakon Blackfyre. Clearly, news of his demise was greatly exaggerated. She couldn't imagine a worse turn of events. The Black Dragon was alive; he was a fearsome warrior, a cunning strategist, and if even one of his Dragons returned to Westeros with him…

Thus far, Saernys' greatest obstacles had come in the form of Edwyn Blackfyre and all those still loyal to House Blackfyre. Drakon had two other children at the head of Great Houses, and many across the Seven Kingdoms owed their positions to him. Now that their great leader had returned, they would flock to his banner in droves, uniting to finish off what gains House Darklyte had made.

No, she thought, gazing out at the fertile lands of the Reach. Her father would sit on the Iron Throne, and her family would finally claim the glory it had been so long denied. The first step was to claim Cider Hall. While Saernys accompanied ships from the Iron Fleet that would strike from the river, the rest of her army moved by land. The castle would fall with a pincer movement. With enough strongholds claimed, they could conceivably launch a siege of Highgarden by year's end.

A monstrous roar thundered from the heavens.

Saernys' breath hitched, and she looked up at the sky. Amongst the clouds, a large shape weaved this way and that, flapping large wings. Against the blood-red backdrop of the setting sun, the shape gleamed like a precious gem. Its body was bronze, while the large, canvas-like wings shone a brilliant gold. As it flew closer, Saernys saw the neck frills were gold as well, while its bone-white horns formed a natural crown, befitting such a majestic creature.

" _Zaldrīzes_!" Saernys whispered.

All her life, she learned of the Dragons that gave her ancestors their power. As a girl, she would scour the wilderness around her family's estate in search of a Dragon egg of her own. The day her father told her all the Dragons were dead, she cried all night long. Whatever else Drakon Blackfyre did, he helped bring them back into the world.

She now stared at one of them.

Euron smiled, a laugh bubbling up from inside. "I always knew this would be useful," he said. Saernys looked at him as one of his mutes brought his Dragon horn. "Who better than a future queen?" he asked, holding it out to her.

Saernys took the horn, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands shook; she was about to accomplish a lifelong dream, for her and her family. The chance to ride on a Dragon's back…

She blew the horn.

The runes carved on its surface glowed a fierce crimson, and Saernys felt an otherworldly energy as the horn call echoed across the land. The Dragon roared, its wings flapping madly as it thrashed from side to side. The beautiful bronze creature tumbled through the air, unable to course correct in time to avoid crashing into the ground.

"Take us ashore!" Saernys ordered. "Take us ashore!" she repeated at the top of her lungs. The crew hurried to obey, directing the longboat to beach as soon as possible.

"Time to make that thing your slave," Euron said, a feral grin on his face.

Saernys countered " _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._ "

She hopped onto the shore, then ran over to where the Dragon crashed, ignoring the Ironborn. It had carved grass from the soil, creating a long, black scar on the field. The Dragon laid on its side, its breathing laboured. Upon seeing her, it raised its head and growled, baring fangs that were as long as her arm. Saernys skidded to a halt, panting. The lingering echo of the horn's call rang in her mind; she felt it linking her to the creature.

Intoning a prayer to her ancestors, Saernys slowly walked forward.

The Dragon's growls ceased, and she felt its powerful gaze on her. From its demeanor, she guessed it wanted to attack her, but could not. It was stuck in place, awaiting her command. Deciding to test her theory, she told it " _Ioratis._ "

Its claws digging into the ground, the Dragon pushed itself onto both back feet. It towered over her by a significant margin. Before such strength, such power, Saernys Darklyte, heir to her father's position and descendent of kings and conquerors, was nothing. If it wanted to, this mighty being could snuff her life in an instant. But through the power of Euron Greyjoy's Dragon horn, it served her now.

Pointing to a stretch of grass nearby, Saernys said " _Dracarys._ "

The Dragon turned its large, spiked head, reared back, and belched a great plume of blinding Dragonfire that consumed a large portion of grass, blackening it in an instant. The flames twinkled in Saernys' vision, promising a thousand glories at the tip of her fingers. She approached the Dragon, and it did not move as she climbed a wing onto its back.

Euron and his Ironborn finally caught up with her, panting from the run. "A fine prize," he said, leering at her mount. "A fine prize, indeed. So what now?"

"Get back on your ship," Saernys told him, a smirk tugging at her lips. "We keep moving to Cider Hall." She leaned in close to the Dragon's head and whispered " _Sovetis._ " It took a running start, flapping its wings until, a few seconds later, it lifted from the ground.

Cider Hall fell in two minutes.

As soon as Saernys appeared, on the back of Drakon Blackfyre's Dragon, no less, the castle's defenders surrendered without a single show of defiance. It took the better part of a day to secure it with the Ironborn and what troops Saernys had with her from the Battle of Bitterbridge. Over the next two days, more of her army gathered there, creating a bastion from which they might soon strike at Highgarden.

Saernys found herself in the courtyard, discussing supply needs with Ser Ronnet and Ser Addam, when a familiar voice said "You've certainly achieved much since last I saw you, Saernys."

She gasped, turning to see a tall man dismounting a horse. He pulled back his hood, revealing his face. It was just as she remembered: angular and well-defined, framed by long silver hair. The roots of his hair were brown from a lifetime of dying it to hide his family's true nature. His eyes were purple, the kind that she and her siblings inherited, and his thin lips were pulled back in a tight smile.

"Father!" Saernys said, joy flooding her heart. Realizing she was not alone, she turned to Ser Ronnet, Ser Addam, and all the soldiers present. "Kneel before your king!"

They all did so.

Saernys knelt, drawing Dark Drinker and holding it out to her father, Aelyx Darklyte. "Your Grace, Cider Hall is yours."

"Rise, daughter. My heir should not kneel, even to me."

She stood, sheathing their family's ancestral blade.

Before she could say any more, another voice cried out "Sae!" Saernys barely had time to react as her little sister barreled into her with a crushing embrace. Kae seemed so much bigger than before, even though she only reached Saernys' chest. She had inherited their father's silver hair and their mother's deep purple eyes, darker than father's, Gae's or Saernys' eyes. One could almost lose themselves in those dark irises.

"Kae! You've grown."

Kae broke the embrace and took a step back. The fifteen year-old was so beautiful, just like their mother. "Father's told me all about your battles. He said the Harpy's Bile I invented came in handy!"

"It certainly did," Saernys admitted with a smile. "It allowed us to take several castles and towns without a prolonged siege."

Kae beamed at the praise.

"By Aegon's sword…" their father said. He stared up at the top of the castle, mouth agape. It was a rare occasion when Aelyx Darklyte was truly surprised by something. Saernys had done just that.

"A Dragon!" Kae exclaimed, bouncing with joy. The bronze and gold creature sat atop the towers and battlements like a bird on a perch, lazily observing the surrounding land. "I never thought I'd see one! How did you tame it?"

"With Euron Greyjoy's Dragon horn," Saernys replied, mention of the Ironborn king leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

She saw her father frown, but Kae's excitement was impossible to contain. "Of course! The old Dragonlords used them to enthrall their mounts. I've read that they would dominate the Dragons of their fallen enemies to avoid years of re-training. According to legend, all the horns were destroyed shortly after the Doom of Valyria. Our great-great-grandmother theorized that a few survived, passed around as treasures." Her brow creased in thought. "I know that Drakon Blackfyre used a similar horn to train his Dragons, but if his is the same as Euron Greyjoy's, then why couldn't he take control of Daenerys Targaryen's Dragons in Meereen when they fought?"

Saernys had been thinking of that very issue, but could not find an adequate answer.

"Perhaps," their father said, crossing his arms, "it's not a question of intent, but of blood. Drakon Blackfyre's mother was some Essosi whore, and the Blackfyres bred with foreigners during their years of exile. His blood is watered down. Whereas ours…"

"Is not," Saernys finished, seeing where her father was going. "Mother was of Valyrian stock, and most of our family have cultivated Valyrian blood."

"We are descendants of kings," their father said. "And there is power in king's blood."

Saernys nodded. She then asked him "Do you know where Gae is? I thought he would return to the west once he crossed the Narrow Sea."

"Your brother returned a few days ago. I sent him on an important mission with an agent of mine, Simon Groat. If they succeed, and I have every indication they will, then we will be in a position to claim the entire North."

* * *

 _ **The Twins…**_

It took the better part of a day to fly to the Twins. Rhaegon had grown to gargantuan size ever since his hatching, but even with his great wings, crossing from the Crownlands to the Riverlands took time.

Drakon doubted they would have much.

Arya held onto him tightly, likely nervous due to never flying before. "Why is my brother at the Twins?" she asked, almost shouting to be heard over the rushing wind.

Drakon carefully formulated a response before speaking. "Your brother Brandon sent him to safety with House Umber before he ventured North of the Wall. My Spymaster, Rona, learned that the Umbers were planning to hand Rickon over to the Boltons as a gesture of faith."

"That's not possible," Arya countered. "The Umbers have been loyal to the Starks for centuries; they'd never do something like that."

"Perhaps. Regardless, they killed the Wildling retainer guarding him and his Direwolf. They then took him in a caravan heading for Winterfell. At the time, I was busy re-conquering Westeros with my armies. I could not let the Boltons have the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, so I dispatched my agents to retrieve him. They rescued him from the caravan and smuggled him south. I had Rickon placed under the protection of a minor lord I installed at the Twins."

Arya asked "And what about after? You won the war, killed all the Boltons. Why didn't you send my brother home?"

Drakon tried to think of an answer, but thankfully their destination came within sight. "We've arrived," he said. Despite knowing Arya for a limited time, he knew she was determined, and questions about his hiding Rickon away would come again.

He guided Rhaegon to the top of the eastern tower. The mighty Dragon flapped his wings as he landed on top, almost completely encircling this half of the castle. Rhaegon dipped his head onto the roof, and Drakon and Arya dismounted. A few guards rushed up the stairs, brandishing their weapons. They froze at the sight of Rhaegon, and their eyes shifted to Drakon.

"Y-Your Grace?" one of the men asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes, I have come home," Drakon told them. "Our country will soon be re-united under proper rule. Now, take me to Gerold Halfhand."

"Of course, Your Grace. As you command."

The guards walked back down the stairs. Before he followed them down, Drakon saw Arya gaze out at either side of the Green Fork. Her mother, brother, his wife and unborn child, and thousands of Northern soldiers had been slaughtered here three years ago. Taken under sacred protection of guest-right, they had all been butchered like cattle, their bodies defiled and mutilated.

"You said that my Great-Uncle Brynden tied Walder Frey to four horses and had him torn apart?" she asked him quietly.

"Yes."

"He deserved worse."

Drakon understood her pain all too well, and the need to deliver vengeance on her family's killers. "He did. His sons Black Walder and Lothar helped him plan and carry out the Red Wedding. I fed them to my Dragons."

"Good."

They followed the guards inside the castle. Everyone was shocked to see Drakon; it had only been a day since he pacified King's Landing, and flying by Dragon was evidently faster than receiving news from a raven. As they descended levels, Drakon could hear music ringing from below, as well as raucous laughter. All signs of a feast.

Entering the great hall, he saw that he was right. Music, laughter, and conversation echoed across the room. Men lined the walls and sat at tables, drinking and eating with abandon. Whores in various states of undress pranced about, some freely fornicating in certain corners or even on a table. At the head of the room, sitting at the high table, Gerold Halfhand blissfully sat, his eyes closed as a blonde whore on her knees serviced his cock.

Drakon glared at his former spy. He shoved his way past the guards and the partygoers until he reached Gerold. Grabbing the whore by her hair, he pulled her back and shoved her to the floor.

Gerold, disturbed from his bliss, opened his eyes. "Who the fuck do you—" He stopped upon seeing Drakon's face, his own blanching rather quickly.

The music stopped, and everyone grew silent as all eyes focused on the miraculously returned king.

"My king, I didn't expect—"

"When I gifted you this castle," Drakon began, his voice low as he tried to contain his fury, "I did not expect you to turn it into a drunken whorehouse."

Gerold gulped, shoving his cock in his pants. "Of course, Your Grace, I was merely—"

"Be silent!" Drakon barked. Gerold recoiled in fear. "Rickon Stark. I've come to collect him. Where is he?"

"Rickon S…Your Grace, is that wise? You told me to—"

Arya appeared beside him, Valyrian Steel dagger pressed against his throat. "Where is my brother? If you don't answer, I'll cut you open like a lobster and search this entire castle by myself."

Gerold, gripping his chair's armrests out of fear, replied "He's not here. I handed him over as commanded."

Drakon narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean 'commanded'?"

"Simon came here, Your Grace, bearing a royal seal. He said the queen wanted Rickon Stark moved for fear of his safety."

"You fucking idiot," Drakon snarled. "The queen fled King's Landing for her life. Simon is a traitor. When I left Rickon Stark in your care, I expressly forbade you from handing him over to anyone except me. I made a mistake in giving you this appointment."

"I swear, I was just doing as commanded," Gerold said, staring at the blade at his throat. "Simon was here only a few minutes ago. He should still be in the castle."

Drakon and Arya shared a glance. She started walking, and he punched Gerold in the face. "We will discuss your incompetence later," he said. "You will not enjoy the conversation." He hurried towards the doors and cried out "Seal the castle! No one is allowed to leave! Bring me Simon and Rickon alive!"

* * *

Gae found himself surprised that the plan actually worked.

He was not surprised that his father had turned one of Drakon Blackfyre's council members into his agent; after all, he had spent years planning for the Darklyte assumption of the throne. Simon Groat was a greasy little toad who would sell his own mother for a few Gold Dragons. The man had no honour, no scruples whatsoever. While that made it easy to sway him, it also made him potentially dangerous.

Nevertheless, his plan to retrieve Rickon Stark was working. Gae, along with half a dozen soldiers, had disguised themselves as loyal Blackfyre soldiers acting as Simon's bodyguards. With a royal seal in hand, he convinced the drunken whoremonger of a lord to hand the youngest Stark boy over to him, ostensibly to move him somewhere safer.

In actuality, young Rickon was the key to claiming the North in one fell swoop.

As they walked through the castle hallways, Gae ruminated on the boy's situation. His very existence was a threat to anyone not a Stark, in this case Drakon Blackfyre. During the Second War of Conquest, Drakon had installed his son Edric as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The Northerners were a suspicious lot, loyal to their own. Their gratitude for removing the Boltons would only go so far; if they knew a Stark son yet lived, they would rush to install him to his rightful place in Winterfell. At the very least, revealing his survival would catalyze further conflict between Edric Blackfyre's loyalists and those Northern Houses wanting to restore their rightful liege.

Rickon was young, and Gae had no doubt he would be persuaded to benefit the Darklyte cause if he could go home after all these years.

The sound of ringing bells shattered his thoughts.

Keeping a grip on Rickon's shoulder, Gae looked at Simon. "I thought you said they wouldn't notice!"

"They could barely stand, much less have the wherewithal to sound an alarm."

Gae started walking. As the others did the same, he said "You better hope we find a way out of here before they catch up with us. I have no problem handing you over to get back to my family."

Simon flashed him a feral grin. "I'm a survivor, my lord Darklyte. Kings, lords, ladies, all of them die around me while I keep on living."

"We'll see about that, won't we?"

They hurried along, the guards' hands on their swords. Gae picked up Rickon and carried him over his shoulder, a hand on the knife at his belt. All around them, the castle stirred into action; servants hurried to and fro, letting their fright guide them, while what little guards they saw ran this way and that, unsure as to how they should respond.

Finally, Gae and the others closed in on a set of doors that would take them out of the castle. From there, they would mount their horses and hopefully be far from the Twins before anyone caught onto the deception.

The gods saw fit to shit on them.

The doors slammed shut, and a number of guards emerged from a side hallway, weapons drawn. As Gae's men attacked them, he handed Rickon over to Simon. "Hold him!" He drew his flamberge, cutting down three men in quick succession. With his blade coated in blood, he turned upon hearing approaching footsteps.

The amber eyes of Drakon Blackfyre greeted him.

He stood beside a dozen soldiers, face contorted in an expression of pure, destructive rage. "You murdered Rona," he growled.

"It wasn't personal," Simon retorted. "Just business. The bitch got in over her head, and once she took the fall, I had to eliminate her. It really was fascinating, watching her skin melt when I forced that Wildfire down her throat. I've never seen anyone die like that."

Drakon drew both his Valyrian Steel swords and advanced on them like an oncoming tempest.

Gae huffed, then told his men "Kill him!" As they attacked Drakon, Gae and Simon hurried up a nearby set of stairs. The soldiers' dying screams followed them up to the next level of the castle. "Now I know you're an idiot! What possible benefit could antagonizing a man that dangerous get us?"

"It was fun!" Simon said.

They kept moving, never looking back as they ascended another level. Rickon started screaming, and Simon had to clamp a hand over the boy's mouth to keep him quiet. They passed by a set of windows looking out at the river, and Gae heard Simon cry out in pain before he collapsed onto the floor.

Gae stopped, turning to see a small young woman flipping through the window and onto the floor. She wielded what looked like a Valyrian Steel dagger in one hand. A line of scarlet ran across the blade.

"Let my brother go!" she warned. Despite her young age, Gae knew she was dangerous.

"Just how many Starks are returning from the grave?" Gae asked incredulously. The young woman, Arya Stark, began moving towards them, twirling the dagger in her hand.

"One more step, and he dies!" Simon shouted. He held a knife to Rickon's throat, standing with a noticeable limp.

Gae glared at his companion. Threatening a child was reprehensible, no matter the circumstance. However, in this instance it bought them a much needed reprieve. The two of them stepped back, and Arya followed them step for step. Rickon, growling like the Direwolf of his House's sigil, managed to kick Simon in the groin. The bald man cried out, his grip loosening enough for Rickon to pry himself free and run towards his sister.

Gae wanted to attack and potentially claim two Stark children for his family's plans, but the sight of approaching guards and Drakon Blackfyre made him abandon that idea.

"Come on!" he said, hauling Simon through a door. He slammed it shut, then jammed a nearby chair against it, buying them a small measure of time. They ran up more stairs, until they breached into the fading light of the evening onto the castle roof. Gae knew they could not reach the other half of the castle from here, but maybe they could climb down and reach the river…

Something growled.

Gae's bones froze as his heart seemed to stop. He turned, as did Simon, and gaped at the sight of Drakon Blackfyre's massive Dragon gripping the sides of the castle. The silver and gold beast glared at them, baring its large, glistening fangs. Reacting on pure instinct, Gae ran for the edge of the battlement and leaped with all his might as the Dragon breathed a great plume of flames. Simon's shriek of agony was quickly drowned out as the flames consumed him in seconds.

As he fell, Gae felt the searing heat of Dragonfire kissing his body, melting his hair and skin as his armour felt like it fused onto his body. He plummeted for some time, then plunged into the Green Fork. His vision darkened as the current swept him away.

* * *

Drakon followed Arya out of the castle. Two horses were waiting for them, their reins held by a pair of Blackfyre men-at-arms. Arya had not let go of Rickon since getting him back. For his part, the boy was quiet, subdued. Years of being away from family, on his own, had done their damage.

"Are you certain you don't want an escort?" Drakon asked Arya. "I can fly you to Castle Black in no time at all."

They stopped by the horses. Arya replied "No, thank you. I think it's better if we go there alone." She looked at him differently; respect was now replaced with suspicion and a slight hint of warning. Arya doubted the veracity of his explanation of hiding Rickon away.

"I'll get you some supplies for your journey," he told her.

"I already took what we needed," Arya countered, gesturing to the second horse. Drakon noticed the saddle bags of the second horse, laden with food and traveling gear.

He could not help but smirk. "Of course you did."

Arya hesitated to speak, then said "I want to thank you, for bringing me home. I wouldn't have gotten here so soon if not for you. Whatever you did before, my brother owes his life to you. Thank you for saving him."

"It was the least I could do."

Rickon looked at Arya, his head low. "Can we go home now?" he asked. His voice was weary, full of pain. He bore the weight of his family's losses, a terrible burden for one so young.

Arya mounted the first horse, then helped Rickon climb on behind her.

"Farewell, Arya Stark," Drakon said. "It has been a privilege to know you."

He thought he saw her smile, but it was too quick to tell. "Thank you for your lessons. I'll always remember them." She kicked the horse, then said "Valar Morghulis," as they rode north, back to their home.

"Valar Dohaeris," Drakon said, watching her fade into the distance.

* * *

 _ **The Kingsroad…**_

"Fuck this cold!" Sandor Clegane muttered, hugging himself tighter. Even dressed in layers of thick furs, the biting chill of winter winds pricked his skin.

Thoros chuckled. "If you want to keep warm, sit closer to the fire, dog."

Sandor glanced at the campfire. The Brotherhood Without Banners, what was left of them, were gathered around it, rubbing their hands or curling on the ground to stave off the cold. Thoros, his red beard and topknot somehow standing out in the darkness, chugged that horse piss rum he liked. The Red Priest didn't seem all that bothered by the cold.

"Freezing my arse off with a bunch of fire worshippers," Sandor muttered. "Just my fucking luck."

He flashed back to the farm in the Riverlands where they'd stayed a few nights the month before. The man who lived there, with his daughter, were nothing but decaying skeletons. Just as he'd predicted when he and Arya stayed there, back when the War of Five Kings still raged. He couldn't get the sight of their bodies out of his head, even after staying up all night to bury them.

"Sit by the fire, Clegane," Beric Dondarrion said, his voice gentle. "You'll be no use to anyone if you freeze to death."

Sandor grumbled, but privately admitted the undead man was right. He moved into the circle, shoving one of the Brotherhood off a tree stump to sit down. "How much fucking longer are we going, anyway? It seems like we've been traveling forever."

"Getting tired of us, are you?" Thoros teased. "Why don't you be off on your merry way, then?"

"I've got nothing better to do."

Beric glanced at the sky, though Sandor didn't know if the man could see anything with only one working eye. "We should reach Winterfell by tomorrow. After that—"

"After that, you lead us Beyond the Wall to our deaths over visions the drunk ginger saw in the flames," Sandor interjected.

"The Lord of Light has a mission for us, Clegane. It is our duty to see it through."

"Your precious Lord can go fuck himself, for all I care," Sandor said, breathing warm air onto his fingers. "As long as I can find a warm bed sometime before I die."

* * *

 _ **Bay of Dragons…**_

Everything was prepared.

After so long in exile, dreaming of the home that had been taken from her, Daenerys was finally ready to leave Essos behind. With the Sons of the Harpy exterminated, and the Masters pacified, the newly renamed Bay of Dragons was secure. Daenerys had left a ruling council in Meereen, as well as Astapor and Yunkai. The Second Sons elected a new leader and would serve as a peacekeeping force in the queen's stead.

Standing on the deck of her flagship, _Aegon's Heir_ , Daenerys gazed out at her fleet. Between the Masters' captured armada, the Ironborn ships under the Greyjoy siblings, and the Dornish fleet, she had more than enough ships to transport her armies. Behind her stood Theon and Yara Greyjoy, Grey Worm, Missandei, Trystane Martell, Lord Varys, and Olene.

A cry from above drew Daenerys' gaze. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion flew in circles as the fleet sailed out of the bay, accompanying their mother.

Daenerys Targaryen was going home.

* * *

 **Phew, longest chapter ever!**

 **Apologies for the delay, folks. I went back to working on my novel, and then I kept hitting a wall with the editing. So, for the time being, I've decided to set it aside and work on other projects. For now, that means fanfiction, but I have another novel in mind to start working on before long. I just need a break from this novel, as much as I love it.**

 **So, quite a lot happens here! I didn't expect the damn thing would be this long when I started writing it, but it just sort of turned out that way. Certain arcs had to finish, and I had to plant seeds for upcoming plotlines. The Darklytes are steadily gaining steam, but their conquest of Westeros won't quite go according to plan now that Drakon's long-awaited return has taken place. It felt good to kill off Simon (justice for Rona!).**

 **I really enjoyed Drakon and Arya's relationship. They're two people who understand each other, and his fatherly instincts kicked in when he started training her. They'll meet again before long, as the cold winds in the North keep rising.**

 **I was so excited for Dorne in the show. I wanted Doran to be a Tywin-level chess master (also, I always enjoy seeing Julian Bashir onscreen!), as well as Oberyn's badass daughters. As we saw, Dorne was by far the weakest plotline in the entire series (at least the region-specific ones), and Ellaria and the Sand Snakes pissed me off with their overbearing 'girl-power' crusade as they engaged in casual Kinslaying and murdering young girls who had nothing to do with their enemies' plots. So, I set out to correct all that! Here, Prince Doran is a schemer who's setting everything into motion for Daenerys' arrival, and Ellaria is nowhere to be seen (in this story, she simply mourns Oberyn and doesn't have any of the irrational hatred we saw on the show). Also, Areo Hotah actually gets to show how badass he is, not get stabbed in the back by Tyene like an idiot when he's supposed to be the head of security.**

 **I think we can all agree that the show's final season was weak. It was rushed, and the characters/plot suffered for it. There were some good moments, such as most of the second episode (holy balls Podrick can sing, eh?), and I'm actually happy with where most characters ended up. The majority of the final three episodes pissed me off, but that doesn't detract from my love of one of the greatest shows on television. We were all truly blessed to be around to see such an amazing tale unfold, regardless of how the ending left a sour taste in our mouths.**

 **That's what fanfiction is for, after all!**

 **Anywho, this brings us to the end of Season 6. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and once again I apologize for the delay. Please review and favourite, as each notification I get brings a smile to my face!**

 **Valar Morghulis!**

 **P.S. To all my fellow Canadians, Happy Canada Day! As always, I am so proud to live in such a great country.**

 **BigWilly526: That's definitely in the cards, now that Ramsay is dead and the civil war in the North is over.**

 **South Down: I feel your pain! That was really difficult to write.**

 **TheOnlyKing: It makes me happy that that caught you by surprise, but I apologize for causing you such distress. Jon would be inclined to do everything he could for Sansa's child, since A) it's the right thing to do, and B) he/she would be family.**

 **TheIronEmperor: I know! I feel so honoured by your review; whenever I write a fanfic, it's to add my own ideas/characters to an already great story and, perhaps, correcting what I see as narrative mistakes. So thank you very much for your kind words. Also, Edric is my personal favourite of Drakon's children.**

 **Lord Feunoyr: First of all, I'm touched that you translated my story so you could read it! Thank you! Now, if I've translated your reviews correctly, here are my answers: the Darklytes have around 14,000 soldiers from the Westerlands, several hundred from castles/towns they've taken in the Reach, and now around 8,000 Stormlanders. The Blackfyre loyalists in the North are the Umbers, Karstarks, Whitehills, Cerwyns, Dustins, and the Glovers, though it's kind of moot now that the civil war is over. As we just saw, Dorne is loyal to Daenerys. In the books, the Golden Company had 10,000 men, which I've carried over here; they only had 20,000 in the show, not that they did anything. Rhaegon is with Drakon, and Maelion has been taken as Saernys' mount. Drakon is planning for Daenerys' arrival, but what his plans are is a mystery for the moment. Edric/Edwyn/Jayne are heads of Great Houses, assuring the loyalty of three kingdoms and allowing them to be their own people. Visenya is the queen, and her children are princes and princess. Sparrows are now dead and gone, while everyone else who betrayed Drakon in King's Landing is dead, too. Daenerys has plans to retake her home, but like Drakon's, they are a bit of a mystery.**

 **Rona's actions were very much a calculated risk, but it was all about getting rid of Visenya as cleanly as possible. Simon upended all those plans for his new employer. Drakon is in his 40s, as he was born 258 AC. He was 40 in Season 1, so now he's 45 now. I also enjoy House Blackfyre (obviously, hehe!). 98 percent of the stories on this site are about a Stark OC, a trueborn Baratheon OC, or a Lannister OC. There's almost nothing out there for a Targaryen/Valyrian OC, and I felt compelled to write about the Blackfyres once I read about them.**

 **Lord Pyrus: Yep, his homecoming won't be as joyous as he was expecting. He's going to be PISSED when he hears about Edric's death. Thanks! I'm so glad it took everyone by surprise, and I'm flattered by the sadness of Edric's passing.**

 **Guest: Me too. It's always hard when a child doesn't get to know a parent as they grow.**


	37. The Crimson Eye

_**The Wall…**_

Meera watched the gate rise above the frozen ground. Bran was silent, his eyes white, in the midst of another vision. The Wall loomed high above, a colossal monument that had stood since time immemorial. How long, Meera wondered, would it last beyond the end of her life? Beyond the end of everyone's lives?

What would the Wall protect if everyone were dead?

The ancient gate groaned as the gears spun. A dozen brothers of the Night's Watch walked out, torches and swords in hand. The one who led them, a man with a plain face and a pointed beard, asked "You Wildlings?"

"I'm Meera Reed," Meera explained. "Daughter of Howland Reed. This is Brandon Stark, son of Ned Stark." She gestured to Bran on the sled; his eyes were back to normal, meaning he was out of whatever vision he just had.

"How do I know that's true?" the leader asked.

Bran fixed him with a penetrating stare. "You were at the Fist of the First Men. You were at Hardhome. You've seen the army of the dead. You've seen the Night King. He's coming for us. For all of us."

The black brother gaped at Bran's words, haunted by whatever he just told him. After a moment of silence, he said "Come on. Let's get them inside."

Two of the black brothers took the sled, much to Meera's relief. As she followed them into the tunnel, she took one last glance at the desolate wasteland that almost claimed their lives a dozen times over. The wasteland that took Summer and Leaf and Hodor. The wasteland that took Jojen.

As the gate closed, separating them from the lands Beyond the Wall, Meera pondered the doom that was coming for them all.

* * *

 _ **The Narrow Sea…**_

Visenya tried to calm Daemon as he cried in her arms, but nothing worked. Her eldest child wailed, his eyes red with tears. Whispering nursery rhymes to him in Valyrian usually soothed him, but not this time. Being out at sea did not agree with him, all the rocking back and forth and constant feeling of being unsteady. Visenya looked at Rhaenyra and Maelys; they laid on the bed of the cabin, staring up at her as they sucked on their little fingers.

The ship listed slightly, and the lantern hanging from the ceiling squeaked as it swung from side to side. Daemon kept crying, and it was all Visenya could do to keep from crying herself.

Ever since the news of Drakon's death, everything had gone wrong. First her brother's allies either died or betrayed her, forcing her to flee King's Landing, then that arrogant Dornishman dared to imprison her. She was the queen! They all should have been on their knees, begging for her favour. 'You are the daughter of a king,' her mother would tell her every night before bed. 'Only your happiness matters'.

The stairs leading up to the deck began creaking, and Visenya saw Yara Greyjoy descending into the cabin. She looked ridiculous, dressing as a man. Not that she was beautiful to begin with.

"I heard him crying," she said, gesturing to Daemon. "I came to see if you were comfortable."

Visenya scoffed. "I never thought the Ironborn could be so courteous to their prisoners."

"We prefer to think of you as our guests," Yara said, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms.

"I am being held against my will, forced across the sea to gods know where. What would you call us?"

"Prisoners."

Visenya held Daemon close, rubbing his back. "I was told I would stay in Dorne, not carted off like a crate of onions."

"The queen wants you kept at Dragonstone with her. It will strengthen her position to have Drakon Blackfyre's family in her care."

"And where is your precious queen? Is she too good for me, is that it?"

Yara smirked. "She's gone ahead to Dragonstone. It's her ancestral home, the place where she was born, which makes it hers by right. We just had to make a detour from the others to pick you up." She started climbing the stairs, and added "It won't be much longer until we arrive."

Visenya glared at the Greyjoy bitch's back. Soon enough, she would have her vengeance. With her brother gone, all her joy became ash in her mouth. Now, all that mattered was ensuring her enemies endured ten times as much pain as she had.

* * *

Olene leaned against the railing, staring out at the water. A fog had settled all around them, muddying the moonlight shining from above. She could recognize the other ships of the Greyjoy fleet by the lanterns twinkling on either side of them. While the Braavosi were noted shipbuilders and sailors, the Ironborn had spent centuries perfecting their skills. Stormy waters were nothing to them.

"It won't be long before we reach Dragonstone," Theon said, walking over to her.

Olene nodded. "Do you suppose the queen will kill Drakon's wife and children?"

Theon did not answer right away. "Maybe. But murdering infants would make her no better than the people who drove her away from Westeros in the first place."

Visions of strangling Visenya Blackfyre and smothering her children flashed in Olene's mind. Ever since she learned of Drakon's survival, all she wanted was to attain vengeance for Kovarro and her unborn child. Why should he have happiness when he stole hers? Olene had hoped that Daenerys would do the right thing and burn Drakon's legacy, but now she was no longer certain that her queen would do what needed to be done.

Theon left to attend to something, leaving Olene to her thoughts. She headed belowdecks, the pouch containing Kovarro's braid ever in her fingers. As the Braavosi walked by the brig, one of Drakon Blackfyre's imprisoned Kingsguard kicked the bars of their cell. "King Drakon will crush your so-called queen's efforts! If you were smart, you would surrender and throw yourselves at his mercy."

"No matter what we do, it will not change your fate," Olene retorted. The three knights glared at her as she walked past.

Olene decided to retire to her cabin for the night. Placing her rapier and Arakh on the table, she laid on her bed and closed her eyes. Not two minutes later, her body started to feel…wrong. Her stomach ached, her muscles burned, and a shrill ringing pierced her ears. Olene groaned, rolling out of bed. She grabbed her weapons and hurried to the deck.

Everyone else appeared as unsettled as she felt. Some of the Ironborn vomited over the railing, while others stumbled in the midst of severe headaches.

It was then that Olene noticed the fog. It was thicker now, to the point that the lantern light of the other ships was almost gone. The seawater churned and rippled, buffeting the ship with mild waves, while thunder cracked overhead. Yara and Theon joined her, hands on their swords. Yara looked to their port side, and her face blanched. Olene followed her gaze.

Amid the thick fog and stormy clouds, a shape seemed to appear. It resembled the golden Kraken sigil of House Greyjoy, except it bore a large, crimson eye in the centre of its body. Olene quickly saw that it was on a sail which rapidly approached.

"Euron!" Yara said, her voice full of fear.

A few moments later, the other ship materialized just as it rammed into them with full force. Olene kept her footing, but some of the crew were knocked off their feet by the impact. The other ship dropped a gangplank, carved in the likeness of a fanged leviathan. A man stood on top, holding the ropes, roaring as it crushed one of Yara's crew. He hopped down, slashing another man across the chest with an impressive axe.

He had short black hair and a trimmed beard. A black eyepatch covered his left eye, while his right eye was blue like the sea. His skin was pale, as if he were a vengeful spectre come to claim their souls. The armour he wore was magnificent, with runes and scales embossed on it. This must be Euron Greyjoy, Yara and Theon's uncle who usurped the former's rightful place as monarch of the Iron Islands.

Euron looked at them as his own crew poured across the gangplank, cackling with murderous glee. Yara shouted, and battle commenced.

Olene brandished her Arakh, slashing with all the grace her training as a Water Dancer gave her. One thing was readily apparent about Euron's crew: they were all mute. None of them shouted or gave any kind of battle-cry. They stabbed with swords and punched with spiked knuckles in complete silence, which made them all the more disturbing.

Flaming projectiles peppered the ship, casting wooden shrapnel as men were thrown into the water. The crow's nest, blazing like a macabre torch, fell onto a group of sailors. Olene spared a quick glance to the other ships. Flaming projectiles criss-crossed all around them, indicating that the Ironborn fleet was under attack by Euron's ships.

Olene slashed one of the enemy sailors across the throat, spraying his blood across her shirt. As ferocious as Yara's men were, they were steadily losing the battle. They would need help.

Olene killed two more men, then hurried down to the brig. The three knights all stood and approached the iron bars. "What's happening out there?" one of them asked.

"It's Euron Greyjoy, isn't it?" another said. Olene remembered his name was Harras Harlaw, a knight of the Iron Islands. "He made a name for himself by raiding Lannisport during the Rebellion. Since then, he's become the terror of the fourteen seas, a demon that appears from nowhere to strike when you're least expecting it."

"If I release you, would you fight for him?" Olene asked.

"That son of a whore murdered my cousin Rodrik," Harras Harlaw spat. "I'll gut him with Nightfall and watch him bleed onto these planks."

Olene recognized the look of someone seeking vengeance. It was a look she herself wore for over a year since Kovarro's death. She found the keys to their cell, then released them. "Your weapons are behind the third door on the left," Olene said.

While this was happening, Euron cut his way through a dozen of his niece's men with laughable ease. He buried his axe in the chest of one traitorous Ironborn, only to have a whip wrap around his neck. Euron grunted in surprise. He felt himself being yanked backwards, and he turned around to see nothing but a Dornish girl. Using the momentum of her pull, he punched her in the face, knocking her back.

Another Dornish girl, this one having the face of an angry boy, came at him with a spear. The weapon bounced off his armour, never leaving a scratch. Euron backhanded her, then caught the spear with his other hand. He broke the spear in two across her back, then stabbed her in the gut with both splintered ends, holding her high for all to see as he growled in victory.

The girl with the whip wailed in grief, hitting him with her whip. In his haze of berserker rage, Euron barely felt her strikes. When she made the mistake of getting close to press her attack, he ripped the whip from her hands. He then wrapped it around her neck, squeezing tight.

Olene and the three Kingsguard emerged on deck to the sight of a savage melee. By this point, all battle lines had dissolved; everyone was trying to survive by killing as many of their enemies as they could. Olene buried her Arakh in one of Euron's sailors, then drew her rapier. She applied all of Syrio Forel's lessons, dancing and weaving through the press of bodies. She stabbed necks and punctured breastbones, aiming for any and all weak spots.

Yara, standing near the wheel, glared down at Euron. He smiled, licking the blood on his lips. She cried out as she leaped from the ledge, tackling him to the deck. As they both got back on their feet, Euron bellowed "Give your uncle a kiss!"

He was relentless, absorbing all of Yara's attacks as he savagely drove her back like an unstoppable tidal wave. Euron managed to knock her sword from her hand, then roar as he grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against a wall, driving the breath from her lungs. Olene, seeing this, tried to render aid to the queen's ally.

She had just enough time to take one step before a knife cut into her heel.

The Braavosi cried out as she fell face forward, her rapier clattering against the planks. When she tried to stand, her foot exploded in pure agony. When she tried to reach for her weapon, a boot stomped on her hand, breaking her fingers.

"Little Theon!" Euron's voice called amid the fading din of battle.

Looking up, Olene saw him holding his axe to Yara's throat. Theon took a few steps forward, then stopped as he noticed his uncle's men. Olene felt rough hands roll her onto her back. Two of Euron's mutes loomed over her, one of them holding a knife. They held her down, even as she tried to fight them off. The one with the knife gripped her tongue with a pair of pincers, then cut it out with the knife.

Olene screamed as the blade sawed through her tongue. The mute ripped it out the rest of the way, and the Braavosi felt the bitter, metallic taste of blood seep into her mouth. She kept screaming as the pain radiated from her mouth through her skull, unable to act.

Olene heard a splash, and looked to see Theon gone. Euron cackled into Yara's ear, delighted at his victory.

A few of his men brought Visenya and her children out onto the deck. Drakon's wife took in the carnage with a steely gaze, one which she quickly redirected at Euron. "I should have known it was you. This is your style, after all: attack without warning, cause as much bloodshed as possible."

"You know me all too well, Visenya," Euron said with a smile. "Especially after all our time together." He handed Yara to one of his men, then stroked the silver-haired woman's cheek. "I still look back fondly on those nights."

She gripped his hand, removing it from her face. "I used you to get what I needed."

"Don't we all?"

One of Euron's men picked up Olene, draping her over his shoulder. The last thing she saw as she was carried onto Euron's ship was the bodies of the three Sand Snakes propped on the ship's bow. Obara was impaled by her own spear, Nymeria was hung with her own whip, and Tyene was pinned to the hull by her own daggers. The sight burned itself into Olene's memory, against the backdrop of burning ships.

* * *

 _ **The Riverlands…**_

Gae did not know how long he drifted along the Green Fork. After his fall, when the Dragonfire touched him, he slipped in and out of consciousness. One minute, he opened his eyes to bright sunlight. In another, he opened them to starry skies.

As his body drifted, so did his mind. Gae thought of Sae, wondering how she fared in the campaign. He also thought of their younger sister, Kae, and of their father. The Darklytes' strongest asset, through the decades, was family. It was the bond that kept each of them strong, the foundation of a dynasty that was theirs to create. No enemy could take it from them, no matter how strong or clever.

Drakon Blackfyre, however, was both.

In his heart, Gae knew that the son of Maelys would be their greatest challenge. Drakon had clawed his way through Great Houses, countless powerful rivals, and seemingly death itself in his rise to power. If fate was so keen to sustain him, then what hope was their for Gae and Sae and the rest of their family?

Gae chastised himself. He could ill afford such thinking; the first stone on the road to defeat was doubt. He and his sister had made great gains since the beginning of their campaign, and would continue to do so.

After gods knew how long, Gae finally stopped as the current deposited him on a rocky shore. He pulled himself out of the water, inch by inch. Every movement made his arms burn from the effort, but he kept going.

"What have we got here?"

Gae stopped. Groaning, he rolled himself onto his back, squinting against the glare of the sun. A group of men wearing armour in the fashion of the Vale stood over him. Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Gae recognized the falcon crest of House Arryn on their chest plates. Last he heard, the Vale was embroiled in the schemes of dissidents wanting to depose Drakon Blackfyre's daughter. Perhaps these men belonged to that group.

"Gods, look at this one!" the first man said. "He's been cooked in an oven."

"Or left out in the sun too long," another added.

Before Gae could do anything, the soldiers walked over and brought him to his feet. "Fuck me, he's tall!" one of them said. "I don't think I've ever seen a man this tall before."

"People can see how ugly he is for miles!"

"If it's all the same to you…" Gae said, "I'll be on my way."

"Now hold on, don't be so quick to—" one of the soldiers started to say. He scrunched his forehead, then added "Don't think I've seen purple eyes before."

Shit, Gae thought.

"Matter of fact, only a few people in the Seven Kingdoms have purple eyes. And from what I hear, there's a certain family that's tall as giants. The Darklytes."

"You sure?" another soldier asked.

"Course I am. Look at his fucking armour! Black flame on blue, that's their sigil. Harry's gonna want to see him."

"Harry? You mean Harrold Hardyng? I can assure you, on my mother's name, I am no one of consequence," Gae said. Though he acted nonchalant, inwardly he was formulating a strategy to escape. He was still weak from the encounter at the Twins, unarmed, against five men. His odds were not that great.

The apparent leader, who successfully deduced his identity, smirked. "The way I hear it, you don't have a mother anymore." The others chuckled.

Gae dropped his pretense and head-butted the man in the face. He stumbled back, blood running from his nostrils. "Never insult my mother again," Gae growled. One of the soldiers slapped him, the impact driving a thousand needles into his head due to the sensitivity of the burned flesh.

"You're coming with us, Darklyte."

They bound Gae's hands in rope, then brought him over to their horses. He spent the next hour bouncing on the back of a saddle, unable to move his hands or legs. This group must have been scouting or foraging, given the distance. Eventually, they rode under a looming shadow. Gae turned his head just enough to note the colossal, ruined towers of the largest castle he had ever seen.

Harrenhal.

The soldiers brought him into one of the smaller courtyards, which was large enough for a modest-sized castle. They pulled Gae off the horse, and he fell onto the mud with a grunt. Not bothering with getting him to his feet, they simply dragged him into what was left of the castle. No matter the size of this faction's army, they could only have occupied a small fraction of Harrenhal's vast interior space. The castle's supposed curse apparently did not faze them, either.

The soldiers opened a door, stepped inside, and threw Gae onto the floor.

"What do you idiots think you're doing?" someone asked. If Gae had to guess, it was Harrold Hardyng.

"We found him near the Ruby Ford, my lord," the group's leader explained.

"And why is he here?"

"This is Gae Darklyte. He washed ashore a few feet from us! If that's not a sign from the Seven, I don't know what is."

Harrold huffed. "How do you know this is Gae Darklyte?"

"He's tall, my lord. Taller than any man I've seen."

"Your powers of deduction are astounding.

"His eyes are purple, my lord. Purple!" The leader sounded far too proud of himself.

"Get him on his feet."

The soldiers picked Gae up, propping him by the arms on their shoulders. Gae got his first good look at Harrold Hardyng. He was a handsome young man, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. At the far end of the room, sitting by the fire, was a boy in fine clothes. He looked simple, as if he only had half a brain. Given the Arryn sigil embroidered on his shirt, he must have been Robin Arryn, son of Jon Arryn and heir to the Vale before Drakon Blackfyre ousted him.

Harrold gripped Gae by the cheek, inspecting him. Robin said "He's so ugly. Why does he look like that?"

"Dragonfire, my lord," Harrold replied. "He was burned by Drakon Blackfyre's Dragon at the Twins. Even with such brief contact, it melted his skin."

Robin cringed. "I don't want to look at him anymore. Can we make him fly?"

"Unfortunately not, Lord Arryn. We can only make people fly at the Eyrie, and the Eyrie was taken from us. However, I do believe he'll make a fine gift to Daenerys Targaryen."

Gae blinked in surprise. Daenerys Targaryen? Had she finally come to Westeros?

Robin smiled. "And then she'll let me ride one of her Dragons. I've always wanted to ride a Dragon!"

Harrold smiled. "I'm sure something can be arranged. Perhaps—"

A horn rang from elsewhere in the castle.

Walking over to a nearby window, Harrold frowned. "We need to get you to safety, my lord. You two!" he said, pointing to the men holding Gae. "Get him into a cell, and be quick about it!" The soldiers dragged Gae out of the room, and he could hear the young man cry out "Man the defenses! Prepare for battle!"

Someone was attacking the castle. Given their current position, it could have been the River Lords or those Vale Lords still loyal to the Blackfyres. Harrenhal was too far from the Reach for Sae to be attacking; besides, she likely had no idea where he was. As much as he wished it was his sister, it was not. The remaining alternatives were all bad for him, as this part of the country was decidedly pro-Blackfyre.

Gae needed to escape, and quickly. His moment of opportunity came when they reached the top of a set of stairs. Knowing his captors were distracted by the prospect of a battle, Gae planted his feet on the floor and pushed with all his might. He fell down, and the two Arryn soldiers went with him.

The three of them tumbled down the stairs, their armour clanking as they grunted with every impact. As one, tied in a jangle of limbs, they smashed into the floor at the bottom.

Gae reached for one of his captors' belts, drawing a knife. He stabbed it into the man's ear, eliciting a wail, driving it further in with his other hand. The second man lunged for him, and they fought in a desperate struggle, clawing and punching each other. Gae felt his opponent's fingernails carving bloody gashes on his cheek; the pain was bad, but he barely registered it in the midst of a fight for survival. Gae managed to roll on top of the second man, digging both thumbs into his eyes. The man screamed as blood pooled in his sockets, and Gae then gripped him by the throat, squeezing as hard as he could.

It took some time, but his opponent finally expired, his face purple.

Gae let go, panting. Outside, horns kept blowing, and hundreds of voices clamoured as the Arryn loyalists armed themselves. Knowing he would need a disguise, Gae grabbed one of the dead men's cloaks, drawing the hood tight over his head. He then took a sword and hurried outside.

Groups of soldiers ran this way and that, armed with spears and swords and bows. In the chaos, no one stopped to talk to him. He weaved his way through the hurrying crowds, eventually finding a makeshift stable. A single man was tending to the horses, but a sword through the back ensured his silence. Gae fitted one of the animals with a saddle, then mounted it.

He rode in the opposite direction of the soldiers. Given Harrenhal's gargantuan size, there must be gateways and exits that the Arryn force had either overlooked or did not have the manpower to guard. Just as he found one, Gae heard something that drove a lance of terror through every inch of his body. Somewhere high above the castle, a Dragon roared.

Gae kicked his horse into a full gallop, urging it to go as fast as possible, away from the fire-breathing beast.

* * *

Drakon looked down at the castle below. Harrenhal, once the greatest fortress ever built by a king who once controlled vast territories. Now, a blasted ruin, forever a monument to Aegon the Conqueror's legacy.

Having rescued Rickon Stark from Gae Darklyte, Drakon was in the process of flying back to the Crownlands when he came across a siege of Harrenhal. A large force began to surround the ruin, replete with large numbers of heavy cavalry. While he could not readily identify the standard of the defenders, his sharp eyes recognized that of the attackers.

Black Dragon claws and studs on a field of bronze. House Royce.

"Jayne," Drakon said. The attackers must have been loyal Vale forces, while the defenders the separatists Tycho Nestoris had told him about in Braavos. Even if his daughter were not down there with the army, they were loyal subjects. A true king always aided those who stayed true to the crown.

With a single word uttered in Valyrian, Drakon urged Rhaegon to dive towards the castle. He would have preferred Maelion to be with him as well, but his other Draconic child was ranging for food in the Crownlands. No matter; one Dragon was more than enough.

Rhaegon flew low over Harrenhal, roaring as his wings stirred up fierce winds below. Like the Golden Company's elephants, Dragons provided a fierce psychological advantage in battle. Their mere presence was enough to terrify even the most battle-hardened men. Drakon guided Rhaegon around, and the silver Dragon landed in the main courtyard, which was large enough for him to fit.

Most of the enemy soldiers fled before the great monstrosity that arrived on their doorstep. Some archers farther back on the parapets dared to shoot arrows, but they bounced harmlessly against Rhaegon's gleaming, impenetrable hide.

Rhaegon lunged for a man fleeing on horseback, his fang-filled maw clamping down on man and beast alike. He swallowed them whole, hissing.

Drakon glanced back at the gate which the enemy used. He gave Rhaegon a command, and the Dragon, turning his head to look back at the gate, smashed it with the end of his tail. He then took flight, leaving Harrenhal open to the loyalist Vale forces. In minutes, companies of mounted knights poured in through the breach, with infantry close behind. Rhaegon breathed fire on several enemy formations, incinerating them as well as creating barriers that blocked the enemy's escape.

The siege proved to be one of the quickest in living memory, as the traitorous Valemen began surrendering in droves. Between the superior numbers of the loyalists and the presence of a fully grown Dragon, they never stood a chance.

Rhaegon landed outside Harrenhal's perimeter, and Drakon dismounted a moment later.

All the soldiers and knights nearby, upon seeing him, dropped to their knees. Drakon nodded to them, expressing his thanks, when his eyes fell on a sight that warmed the deepest recesses of his heart. There, mounted on her childhood horse Ebony, was Jayne. She wore her hair differently than the last time he saw her. Drakon had been gone for over a year, and his daughter and eldest child looked older. There was a hardness to her, as if her gentler tendencies had been chipped away. But beneath the woman mounted ahead of him, he still saw the precious little girl who made every day a treasure.

Jayne gasped upon seeing him. She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes tearing up. Her husband Andar dismounted and helped her do the same. Jayne ran towards Drakon, and the soldiers in the way had the good sense to move.

She threw herself into his arms, and he held her tight as he spun her around. At long last, after courting death, suffering captivity for several months, and enduring the arduous journey to come home, Jayne was back in his life.

"I never thought I would see you again!" she croaked, crying into his shoulder.

"Neither did I," Drakon said. "I'm so sorry for not coming back sooner. I want you to know that through all I endured, I never stopped thinking of you. You kept me strong when I felt weak, and the thought of seeing you again drove me to conquer every obstacle."

He finally put Jayne down, and took a step back to look at her. "Much has happened while you were gone, father."

"I know," he said, squeezing her shoulders. "You had to face many challenges in my absence, but you clearly overcame them. I only wish your mother were alive to see what a strong, wise woman you've become."

Jayne laughed, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

"I'm so proud of you, and your brothers. I can't wait to see Edric and Edwyn again."

Jayne's expression grew cold, like the chill of a crypt after the internment of a loved one. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was as if what she had to say was too painful to utter.

A frozen fist of terror crushed Drakon's heart. "Jayne. What is it?"

"Father," she said, her lip quivering as more tears ran down her face. "Edric, he…Edric is dead."

Drakon stumbled back as if struck. He felt the blood rushing from his head, and he grew dizzy. The ground rushed to meet him, and he fell onto his hands and knees. The Blackfyre king choked a sob as the reality of his daughter's words set in.

"There was a battle, at Winterfell," she said, almost too quiet to hear. "Edric was killed in the fighting."

Drakon punched the ground, his jaw aching. He leaned back and, looking upwards, screamed into the heavens. Rhaegon roared, mirroring his grief. After all he had suffered, the lengths he had gone to so he could see his family again, Drakon's joy now crumbled into ruin, just like the castle that loomed over them all.

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

"I want every Northern Maester to scour their records for any mention of Dragonglass," Jon said. His voice echoed across the Great Hall, reaching the ears of every gathered lord and lady. All the Northern Houses were represented; the Umbers, Whitehills, Glovers, Karstarks, Cerwyns, and Dustins sat on one side of the hall, while the Mormonts, Forresters, Manderlys, and Wildlings sat on the other side.

Sansa, sitting beside Jon at the front of the hall, knew the seating arrangements were intentional by all parties involved. The wounds of the recent conflict were still fresh.

Jon continued. "Dragonglass kills White Walkers. It's more valuable to us now than gold. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it. Everyone age ten to sixty will—"

"I've got one question, Snow," Smalljon Umber interrupted, standing. Sansa knew something would happen sooner rather than later. "Who the fuck put you in charge?"

Rodrik Forrester, his face bearing scars from the Battle of Winterfell, stood to face the giant of a man. "Jon Snow is Ned Stark's last surviving son."

"He's a bastard! Lady Sansa is the new Warden of the North until her child comes of age. She was married to the rightful Lord of Winterfell."

"She was married to Edric Blackfyre at the behest of a king we do not recognize," Lyanna Mormont said. Despite her small stature amongst the burly lords, she commanded enormous respect and demanded attention with every glance. "The so-called 'House Blackfyre of Winterfell' is no more. Lady Sansa is a Stark, she always has been."

Smalljon glared down at her. Amusingly, the little lady's return glare looked more intimidating. "Her name is Sansa Blackfyre. Unlike you and your rebellious friends, the rest of us actually remained loyal to our liege lords. My family followed the Starks because they ruled Winterfell. Then we followed the Boltons. Now we follow the Blackfyres."

Before the argument could devolve into a brawl, Sansa stood. "My lords, my ladies." All eyes focused on her. "It is true that I was born a Stark of Winterfell. In my heart, I will be a Stark until the day I die. But I was also lawfully wed to Edric Blackfyre, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North as appointed by his father, the king. I carry Edric's child inside me; his family is my family, just as much as the one I was born into. I appreciate your concern, all of you, but now is not the time for division. Edric would have wanted us all to work together."

"She speaks the truth," Jon said. "All Edric wanted was to protect the North and keep its people unified. Once he learned the scale of the threat we face, he ended the battle. Ludd Whitehill murdered him, but Ludd Whitehill is dead."

At one of the side tables, where the Wildling chieftains sat, Ser Davos Seaworth stood. "Friends, if I might speak?" He looked at Jon, who nodded his approval. "I'm not a lord. Hell, before I was knighted, I was nothing but a smuggler. Depending on who you ask, I'm still a smuggler. I've no right to address all you lords and ladies. But you'll want to hear my words. I served Stannis Baratheon; I thought he was a great man, and would have made a great king. Like the others in the war, he wanted the throne. Not out of a lust for power or glory, but because he knew it was the right thing to do. I was the one to deliver him the letter Maester Aemon at Castle Black sent, warning the kingdoms of the White Walkers.

"When Stannis learned of the threat, he took everything he had up here because he understood that if the Walkers breach the Wall, then we all lose. You're all members of great and small Houses, with proud histories and ancestors worthy of story and song. You've fought beside and against each other countless times. The evil that's coming for us doesn't care about any of that. They don't care about allegiances and blood right and who deserves to rule. If they get south of the Wall, then we all die. It's as simple as that. Unless we all band together now, fight with everything we have, then it won't matter which family rules Winterfell."

A pall of silence passed over the great hall as the gathered lords considered the words. Ser Davos nodded to Jon, then sat back down.

Jon, for his part, said "The only thing standing between us and the army of the dead is the Wall, and the Wall hasn't been properly manned in centuries. I'm not the king of the Free Folk, but if we're going to survive this Winter together…"

Tormund, the ginger, bearded Wildling friend of Jon's, stood with a grin on his face. "You want us to man the castles for you."

"Aye. Last time we saw the Night King was at Hardhome. Closest castle to Hardhome is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

"And that's where I'll go," Tormund said. To the lords, he said "Looks like we're the Night's Watch now."

He sat down, and a guard entered from the far side of the hall. Sansa narrowed her eyes, noticing his sense of urgency. The guard approached her and Jon, knelt, and said "My lady, my lord. A number of Southerners have been detained at the front gates. They wish to speak with you."

Sansa shared a glance with her brother. "And why should we speak to them?"

"Their leader claims they are on a mission vital to the victory of the living over the dead."

The gathered lords started murmuring, and Jon stared down at the table, looking just as surprised as Sansa felt. After a few moments of silent pondering, he said "Bring them in."

The guard looked at Sansa, who nodded.

He left, and a few minutes later returned with more guards and a dozen Southern men wearing fur coats. Three men stood out: the first had red hair tied into a topknot, and he carried a wineskin in his hand. The second had an eyepatch covering his right eye, which made Sansa's heart ache with a reminder of Edric. The third…

"Hello, Little Bird," Sandor Clegane greeted, smirking.

"You're the Hound," Jon said.

"Aye, that's me."

"What does the Lannister's attack dog have to do with this lot?"

Sandor fixed him with a bored gaze. "Been a long time since I served the Lannisters. Been a long time since there were any Lannisters. As to what I'm doing with this lot, he's the one you want to talk to." He jerked his thumb, indicating the man with the eyepatch.

"My lord, my lady. My name is Beric Dondarrion. The men with me are the Brotherhood Without Banners. What's left of us, at any rate."

"Last we heard, you operated out of the Riverlands," Jon said. "What brought you all this way?"

"A matter of the utmost importance. We are on a mission from the Lord of Light, one that, if we succeed, will ensure the survival of the living when the Long Night comes. And it is coming."

Tormund spat on the floor. "More talk of fire gods. Last time someone mentioned this 'Lord of Light', they burned my king alive."

The ginger standing beside Beric Dondarrion took a step forward. "None of you may believe in the Lord of Light, but he is real. In fact, he's the world's best chance against the great evil. He is a god of light and life, whereas the Walkers serve a darker power, one who represents death and darkness. The Lord's power brought Beric back from death so he could fulfill a purpose, and that purpose is what brought us here."

"You're Thoros of Myr," Sansa said, realizing his identity from his appearance. "You brought Beric back to life."

"As I said, my lady, the Lord did. I was merely his instrument."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. An impossible idea formed in her mind, so impossible as to seem laughable. But maybe, just maybe, the gods had finally taken pity on her and sent these men as a sign. Even if it did not work, if this idea was nothing but pure fantasy, she had to try.

"If you could do it for Beric, could you do it for someone else?" she asked.

Thoros and Beric shared a nervous glance. The latter said "My lady, the Lord brought me back for a purpose. Six times he brought me back, and each time I came back a bit less, less than what I was. This is not a fate I would visit on anyone else."

"I don't need Thoros to do it six times, just once," Sansa countered. "Will you try?" The two men hesitated, which prompted her to say "Guards!"

All the guards in the great hall drew their swords, surrounding the Brotherhood Without Banners.

"Sansa, what are you doing?" Jon asked.

"What I have to," she replied. "Thoros, you will come with me. The rest of you will remain here." Sansa stood from her chair and walked to the far end of the hall, Brienne moving to shadow her. Two guards prodded the Red Priest to follow her. Even though she was well into pregnancy, Sansa walked with a renewed sense of urgency. Edric's face appeared before her, just out of reach. If she could try hard enough, she could touch it, and he would be back in her arms.

They came to Maester Pyne's laboratory. "My lady?" the old man asked, looking at Thoros with suspicion.

"There's no need for worry, Maester," she told him. "This is Thoros of Myr. He's going to bring Edric back."

"Bring him back? My lady, Lord Edric is…"

"I know what he is!" she snapped. "He can give him life again."

Edric still laid on the table, his skin unearthly pale and the multiple stab and arrow wounds sewed up. Thoros looked down at him, then at Sansa. "I've already told you, Lady Sansa. I don't have any power. The Lord does. Beric came back because the Lord bid it so."

"If you don't try, then none of your friends are leaving this castle alive."

The Red Priest stared at her for several moments, his lips pressed together in thought. Eventually, he inclined his head. He stepped over to Edric's side, laying both hands on his chest. Bowing his head low, Thoros said "Lord, cast your light on this man, taken so young. His fire has gone out; save him from death and darkness."

Sansa stared at Edric's closed eyes, not blinking. "Again."

"Lord, cast your light on this man, taken so young. His fire has gone out; save him from death and darkness."

Still nothing. It could not end this way! Not when she had a chance. "Again."

Thoros gave her a look, then continued. "Lord, cast your light on this man, taken so young. His fire has gone out; save him from death and darkness."

Edric did not move. Sansa's jaw began to quiver, and she held her dress so tight she thought she might tear the fabric. Her husband's face began to fade in her mind's eye, receding forever beyond her reach. She finally faced the reality that he was gone.

"I'm so sorry, my lady," Thoros said, sincerity in his voice. "Much as we might wish it, sometimes the ones we love don't come back. The Lord shines his light on all of us, and I hope you find some comfort in the knowledge that your husband is with the Lord now, bathing in the glow of eternal bliss."

Hot tears streaked Sansa's cheeks, and she dared not speak for fear of crumbling into nothing.

"Maybe it's best that—"

Edric gasped for air.

* * *

 _ **Dragonstone…**_

Daenerys stared at the island of Dragonstone. The last time she was here, she had just been born, forced to flee because of the actions of her father. Now, after so many years trapped in foreign lands, she was home. The fleet was anchored a ways back; her rowboat was at the head of several others that carried a complement of Unsullied that would secure the castle. Sitting behind her were Varys, Tyrion, Trystane Martell, Grey Worm, and Missandei. Olene was with Yara and Theon Greyjoy, who would be joining them shortly.

Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal screeched as they flew overhead, circling the island.

The boat finally beached, and Daenerys was the first to step onto the shore. She walked for a few minutes, hearing the push and pull of the tide. Crouching, Daenerys pressed her hand against the sand. It felt coarse on her skin, but welcome at the same time. This was the place where her journey began, and hopefully the place that marked her journey's end.

With her advisors behind her, she walked up the first flight of stairs. Ahead, a great gate was shut. Twin Dragon heads, carved from stone, flanked it, standing watch over the entrance to House Targaryen's ancient fortress.

The gate began to open.

Daenerys stopped, shocked, as several Unsullied ran in front of her. They leveled their spears, prepared for any threat. The gates slowly swung open, revealing a group of soldiers who bore the black Dragon of House Blackfyre on their armour. At their head was a pretty man with long, curly hair, garbed in black armour. He stopped in the centre of the gateway.

"Daenerys of the House Targaryen," he greeted. "My name is Loras Tyrell, son of Mace Tyrell, Hand of the King. I am Lord Commander of Drakon Blackfyre's Kingsguard." He drew his sword, and Daenerys saw the Unsullied tense. Rather than attack, however, Loras Tyrell did the unthinkable and got down on his knees. Holding his weapon to her, he said "By command of my king, I hereby surrender this castle to you, with his fervent wish that this proves his desire to open a dialogue so your two great Houses can finally put an end to their bitter feud."

* * *

 **Welcome, one and all, to Season 7!**

 **I've been looking forward to this stretch of story for quite a while. Despite my general misgivings about Seasons 7 and 8 of the show, there were several awesome/heartwarming scenes in both, and I can't wait to integrate the war material from Daenerys vs the Lannisters into this story. Obviously the paradigm is different, but certain battles and elements will be familiar. Cast in point, the naval battle with Euron. I had it take place in this chapter for narrative purposes, and it's one of the best battles I saw on the show.**

 **I'm just going to keep my mouth shut on the major twist in this chapter. I hope you all like it, and if not, I understand. It's something I've had in mind for quite a while (since I started publishing this story, really), and I finally got to that point.**

 **Only two more seasons. Let's just say the Dance of the Black, Red, and Blue Dragons will reach its intensity in the coming chapters. Stay tuned!**

 **Please review/favourite!**

 **Lord Pyrus: Ha ha, that's hilarious! It's oddly gratifying to cause classroom shenanigans. Thanks for the writing well-wishes! Yeah, I could never have Jon and Sansa fight like they did on the show. At the end of the day, they love each other, and Edric's death was neither of their faults. It has been interesting to write Edwyn and Saernys' rivalry. I just couldn't resist having both warring factions have Dragons of their own. As this chapter demonstrates, Gae wasn't completely incinerated. He only caught the edge of the flames while Simon faced the full brunt of them. You could say Gae was 'flame-kissed'.**

 **TheOnlyKing: It's touching that you're so concerned as to how this story will end! Thank you for your honesty. It's all about setting up obstacles for Drakon and the other characters, otherwise there would be little tension. I understand your frustration about how the show ended, and believe me when I say that my top priority is wrapping this story up in as satisfactory a fashion as I can manage.**

 **South Down: No, Ben Plum won't be appearing. All the Second Sons remained in the Bay of Dragons, and they won't appear in the remainder of this story. The Darklytes promised the Stormlander lords various things: lands, titles, and the chance for those who were loyal to Stannis a chance to avenge his death. Arianne is with her father in the Water Gardens, and I've kept Quentyn out of the story to simplify the narrative.**

 **TheIronEmperor: Happy belated birthday! I'm glad I could give you an unexpected gift like that. I despise Cersei with a passion, so the fact that I made you hate Visenya more makes me strangely happy. She essentially has a lot of Cersei's narrative cues and a similar sense of arrogance and contempt for others. Thanks for the input on the faith issue; I never claim that Drakon is perfect, as he makes several mistakes. No one is perfect, and who knows? Maybe down the road he'll face the kinds of problems you mentioned. For now, between the war with the Darklytes and the coming of the White Walkers, Westeros has bigger problems to face. Glad you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **Guest: Fanfics and ships are like chocolate chips in pancakes: you can't have one without the other.**

 **Dalrada: I'm always happy to get my readers' input. Don't be afraid to call me out on what you think I'm doing wrong.**

 **Guest: The Darklytes' theory of Drakon's blood being watered down is just that, a theory. Valyrian Dragonlore has mostly been lost or forgotten over the centuries, so a lot of hard facts are difficult to come by. And who's to say that Euron didn't 'beef up' his horn with magic, blood or otherwise?**

 **Valar Dohaeris!**


	38. Renewal

_**Highgarden…**_

Aelyx Darklyte rode with an honour guard up the road. The white walls of Highgarden loomed ahead, though the main gates were wide open. Outside, the Tarly army camp was being secured by Darklyte troops, while inside, the castle garrison was being disarmed. Aelyx and his guards rode through the famous briar labyrinth between the outer and middle walls. The _click-clacking_ of their horses' hooves on the cobblestones mingled with the _clanging_ of swords thrown to the ground.

After crossing the threshold into the inner wall, Aelyx looked up. Straddling one of the squat, square towers that dated back to the Age of Heroes, Saernys' Dragon glared down at the men in the courtyard. The bronze and gold-scaled beast growled, making the threat of Dragonfire all the more immediate.

Aelyx saw his daughter astride the Dragon. For the first time in their family's history, a Darklyte had finally claimed the power of the ancient Dragonlords. The sight gave him no small amount of pride. His eldest child noticed him and smiled, as did he.

Noticing movement in the edge of his vision, he turned to see Kae staring up at the Dragon in wonder.

"Quite something, isn't it?" he asked her.

His youngest child merely nodded, her deep purple eyes fixed on the beast of legend.

"Drakon Blackfyre and Daenerys Targaryen may be our enemies, but they did bring Dragons back into the world." When Kae did not respond, he added with a smirk "Although right now you're probably thinking of riding it."

"Yes," she replied, giving him a dreamy smile. "I've wanted to ride a Dragon since I was five years old."

"Four, actually," Aelyx corrected. "Your mother gave you a Dragon egg pendant for your birthday. I'm sure your sister would be more than willing to give you a chance."

"I can't," Kae said, subdued. "She needs him for the war. Maybe after, when you're king." A pair of horses entered the courtyard, pulling a cart containing crates of varying sizes. "I almost forgot! I've been working on something I want to show you. It's—"

"Your Grace," Ser Addam Marbrand called from the far side, a pair of Westerland men flanking him. "The last of the garrison has surrendered. Randyll Tarly and his son are being held in the great hall."

Aelyx looked back at Kae, who partially succeeded to hide her disappointment. "Excellent news, Ser. Take me to them." To Kae, he said "I'll find you when I'm done."

She nodded, walking over to the cart and directing the men offloading the crates. Aelyx and his honour guard followed Ser Addam into the castle. As they walked, the patriarch of the House Darklyte marveled at the sheer amount of wealth displayed. For years, he had acted as a vassal for the Lannisters, rightfully famed for being the wealthiest family in Westeros. Tywin Lannister had been a man who never frittered his money away; it was one of the few things Aelyx respected about him.

The Tyrells, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. The floors were covered in carpets spun from the finest Essosi fabrics, while the walls were decorated with tapestries depicting golden roses or some great ancestor of the Tyrell line. Suits of polished, gilded armour flanked many of the doorways, and the windows outlined by glittering garlands. The great hall itself was grander than that of the Red Keep in the capital. At twice the size, it could have housed Aelyx's entire cavalry regiment.

In the centre of the hall, Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon were on their knees, their hands shackled as Darklyte men stood watch over them.

"Lord Tarly," Aelyx greeted.

The Lord of Horn Hill glared at him, a well-worn scowl on his face.

"We may be enemies, but we can still be civil."

Randyll scoffed. "I do not bandy pleasantries with traitorous curs."

Aelyx replied "Times are changing, my lord. I have no desire to execute you and your son. I would be more than happy to name you Lord Paramount of the Reach if you swear fealty to me and my family."

"I'm a Tarly. That name means something. We're not oathbreakers, we're not schemers. We don't stab our rivals in the back, or cut their throats at weddings. We abide by honour; we do what is right. By law, Drakon Blackfyre is my king. Edwyn Blackfyre is my liege lord. You and your children are inciting rebellion and chaos in a country still bearing the scars of war. I do not recognize you as anything but a rebel."

The man certainly lived up to his reputation. "I understand your reticence. In your position, I would likely act the same way."

Dickon Tarly tried to stand, but the guards forced him back to his knees. "My mother and sister, are they hurt?"

"I have not harmed them, you have my word," Aelyx replied. "You did not take to the field after we took Horn Hill, therefore I saw no need to press the matter. You'll be allowed to see them once this is all over. Until then, you will be given chambers suited to your status as my guests. You will have nothing but time to consider my offer."

The guards escorted father and son out of the great hall.

"See that the castle is secured and our men given proper accommodations," Aelyx told Ser Addam. "Tomorrow we shall hold a war council to decide our next move."

"Yes, Your Grace," the knight said, bowing before he departed.

With matters more or less settled, Aelyx went in search of Kae. He found her in one of the smaller dining halls. The table and chairs leaned against one of the walls, and the crates she brought with her from Old Oak were strewn around the hall, opened. "Father!" Kae called. She stood in front of the hearth, manning a familiar-looking contraption.

"A Scorpion," Aelyx noted, walking over to her. "You told me this new invention of yours would give us a decisive advantage against Drakon and Daenerys' Dragons."

"It will," Kae said. "I didn't so much invent this as reinforce a common design, but it did give me an idea. We know that Dragons are immeasurably powerful, but they do have some weaknesses. While they're young, they're vulnerable. It isn't until they mature that they develop scales impenetrable to most weapons. They can harm each other, however."

Aelyx nodded. "In Meereen, Drakon's Dragons were able to wound Daenerys' with their claws and fangs."

"Exactly!" Kae said. She seemed to glow in the midst of conversing about Dragon lore. "We also know that Dragons can be killed. Rhaenys Targaryen's Dragon, Meraxes, was killed in Dorne when a Scorpion bolt pierced his eye."

"You're thinking that, if we target the eyes or other soft spots, we can use this Scorpion to wound a Dragon?"

Kae nodded. "Allow me to demonstrate." She gestured to the opposite side of the hall, where a pair of wooden horses were placed, one in front of the other. Both were girded in heavy barding. Kae pulled the Scorpion's lever. It fired with great force, launching the seven foot-long bolt at the wooden horses. The bolt punched clean through the first horse, armour included, stopping once the tip pierced the armour of the second.

"Impressive," Aelyx noted. He tried to not let his disappointment cloud his daughter's enthusiasm. "But…such weapons are common. How is this supposed to…"

He trailed off as a distinct _hissing_ sound reached his ears. Aelyx walked over to the horses, searching for the noise's origin. All three puncture points seemed to widen as a caustic substance ate the metal and wood. "You've tipped the bolt with Harpy's Bile."

"And I've covered the shaft in a poison derived from a rare species of frog in Sothoryos. It's ten times deadlier than Manticore venom."

Aelyx smirked. "Well done, Kae. Well done."

"I hate that we might have to kill a Dragon. If only I had the chance to study more than one. I could learn so much about their social structures, their hunting habits. We don't even know if Dragons are exclusively male or female. Maybe they fertilize their own eggs. There is so much we don't know."

"Fortunes of war, darling."

* * *

 _ **Winterfell…**_

Edric opened his eyes.

A flood of sensations assaulted his awareness: the candlelight blinded him, the cold air burned his throat, and the table felt hard and uncomfortable. In one moment, there was nothing but darkness, and in another, there was everything.

Just as he started to adjust, he felt someone holding his head. Sansa. She rained kisses all over his cheeks, nose, and mouth.

"My lady, he needs a moment to recover." Who was that? Maester…Pyne!

Sansa reluctantly stepped back, and Edric forced himself to sit up. He took several deep breaths, staring at the stone floor. "How?" he croaked. Maester Pyne brought him a cup of water, which he guzzled. "How am I alive?"

"Thoros of Myr," Sansa replied. "He used magic or prayer to bring you back."

"As I keep telling you, my lady," the armoured ginger said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "I have no power. The Lord of Light does. And it would seem he has plans for you, Edric Blackfyre."

Edric furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"That doesn't matter," Sansa said. "What matters is you're back. Whether it's because of magic or faith or random happenstance, I don't care."

He could see the tears welling in her eyes, and took her in his arms. They stayed that way for several moments, until Edric's memory began to return. He remembered being shot by Ludd Whitehill's men, and the fall into the water with Jon. He remembered the grueling walk from White Knife, stopping the battle, and being shot in the back by Ludd himself.

His confusion gave way to anger, and he asked through gritted teeth "Where's Ludd? I'm going to gut that fucking traitor myself."

Sansa took a step back. "He's dead, Edric. Rodrik and Asher Forrester killed him."

Damn. Now Edric knew how his father felt, his vengeance denied by another killing his nemesis. "I need to address the Northern lords. They're probably ready to slit each other's throats by now."

"My lord, you need rest," Maester Pyne said. "You've been through an ordeal that should not be possible."

"But it is!" Edric said, his voice hard as iron. "I survived losing an eye, I survived being shot in the back and freezing in a Northern river. I need to be there for my people." He swung his legs over the side of the table, then stopped once he saw the sewed up wounds on his chest and belly. Edric traced a finger over each of them, remembering the sting as each arrow pierced his body. Somehow, he came back from death; to the best of his knowledge, no one in his family's entire history had accomplished that.

For what purpose?

"Can you stand?" Sansa asked.

Edric smiled at her. "If I can breathe, I can stand." He inhaled, then got to his feet. Almost immediately, his legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed onto the floor. Thankfully, Sansa was there to offer him balance, and he gratefully squeezed her hand. "I'll need something to wear."

"Here," Thoros said, draping his fur coat over Edric. "This is going to be quite the show."

Hand in hand with his wife, Edric walked out of Maester Pyne's laboratory. Once again, he moved through Winterfell without his bandage, no longer ashamed of his injury. With Sansa by his side, there was nothing he could not conquer. Soon, they came to the great hall, where familiar voices battled for dominance in a heated argument.

"Fuck the Blackfyres!" Asher Forrester shouted. "We follow the Starks, and only the Starks.."

"Don't talk to me about loyalty, boy!" Smalljon bellowed. "You spent years traipsing around Essos, wanting nothing to do with your family. Some of us actually stayed and fought for the North. I'd be more than happy to smack you upside the head and teach you proper manners."

"Gods, can't any of you shut up?" Edric interjected, waiting for a brief lull in the tirades.

In an instant, the entirety of the hall fell silent as the argument died. Chairs and benches were overturned as everyone sitting bolted to their feet. The people nearest Edric backed away, likely in fear of some sort of curse or whatever dark powers resurrected him. From the sea of pale, petrified faces, Smalljon shoved his way through to Edric. The big man gripped his chin, turning his head back and forth.

"Still short and scrawny. Not much of a beard."

"Still big and ugly. More hair than a Direwolf."

Smalljon stared at him for a moment, then started chuckling. He clasped forearms with Edric. "Welcome back, you little shit. How the fuck are you alive?"

Edric and Sansa looked at Thoros, who took a swig of rum.

"Thoros?" an older man with an eyepatch asked. Edric's father told him about Beric Dondarrion, a lord who founded a rebel group in the Riverlands that fought the Lannisters in the War of Five Kings. According to the stories, Thoros of Myr brought him back to life six times after death, each fatal injury worse than the last.

"It seems the Lord of Light has plans for this one," the Red Priest explained.

Edric noticed Jon standing by the high table, and walked over to him. He held out a hand, which Jon took with a nod. "I know this is a lot to accept," Edric said, turning to the gathered lords and ladies. "I wish I could tell you what this all meant, but the truth is I can't. What I can tell you is that a threat is bearing down on us from the North. This is an enemy we cannot fight if we're divided. It will slaughter us all and turn us into soldiers for an army of the dead."

"And how do you know so much about this threat?" Rodrik Forrester asked. "You've never been North of the Wall."

"I saw a vision in the flames, shortly after the Battle of the Wolfswood."

"It would seem the Lord has a special destiny in mind for you," Beric said.

The man standing beside him, almost a head taller than everyone else, huffed in annoyance. "Yes, everyone's having fucking visions these days. Get bloody on with it before we all die of boredom." Since half of his face was burned, he could have only been Sandor Clegane, the Hound.

Edric frowned, but looked back at Jon. "You've fought them before, yes? Is there anything we can use to defeat them?"

"Fire is the only thing that can kill the army of the dead," Jon replied. "As for the White Walkers themselves, Valyrian Steel can kill them. Since there are only a few Valyrian Steel weapons in all of Westeros, that won't be enough. A man of the Night's Watch I trust implicitly used a Dragonglass dagger to kill a White Walker. We need more of it, to make weapons to fight the Walkers."

"Dragonstone," Edric said. "There's a mountain of Dragonglass on that island. When my father took it over, I went exploring in the caves. All the glass we'll ever need is there."

Jon nodded. "Aye. Stannis Baratheon told me the same thing while his army was encamped at Castle Black. Which is why I intend on traveling to Dragonstone and ensuring every last bit of Dragonglass is sent here."

The lords and ladies murmured. Sansa frowned. "Jon, you can't be serious. You're really going to go there?"

"The garrison are loyal to my father," Edric said. "If I send a letter with my seal explaining everything, they'll give you access to the cave."

Jon and Sansa shared a nervous glance.

"What?"

Jon sighed. "Daenerys Targaryen has returned to Westeros, with an army of Unsullied, Dothraki, and three Dragons. They've taken control of Dragonstone."

Edric leaned on the table, closing his eyes. They did not have time for this. Bad enough that Edwyn fought a rebellion led by a House of Targaryen descent, but now the whole realm faced the prospect of an invasion by the Mother of Dragons and her barbarian hordes. Edric had to focus on preparing the North for the arrival of the White Walkers, which prevented him from doing anything in the South. His sister could rally the knights of the Vale, which would be a great help, but he knew full well the advantage Dragons brought to the battlefield.

"You can't go, Jon," Sansa said. "Daenerys Targaryen is the enemy. Her father burned our grandfather alive and strangled our uncle as he watched. Her brother kidnapped and raped our aunt. A Targaryen can't be trusted!"

"And what do you suggest we do?" Jon asked. "March our armies South, declare war on her? The last time a Northern army marched South, it ended in disaster! The realm is divided; almost all the other kingdoms are rebelling or fighting civil wars of their own."

Edric turned to his wife and held her hand. "As much as it pains me to say it, we need to make a truce with Daenerys Targaryen. At least for now. Long enough for us to get the Dragonglass and, hopefully, weather the coming storm. If we can't, then our only choice is to abandon the North if we want to live."

"We won't leave our home," Asher Forrester declared. "My brother and I bled and fought to reclaim Ironrath, and I'll be damned if I'll let fucking White Walkers have it. House Forrester will defend our home, to the death if needs be. What do the rest of you have to say?"

"Aye!" everyone shouted. Northerners would never retreat; Edric's difficulty convincing Smalljon to abandon Last Hearth was proof enough that their homes were everything to them.

"When will you leave?" Edric asked Jon.

"As soon as possible. The longer we wait, the worse we'll be."

"I'll go with you," Davos Seaworth said. "I know the island, and maybe I can be of some use in convincing this…Mother of Dragons not to feed us to her children at the first opportunity."

Edric nodded. "There's just one last thing we have to clear up," he said. Looking out at the sea of faces, he called "Gwyn Whitehill, Alys Karstark, step forward."

The lords looked to the back of the hall, separating enough for two beautiful young women to come into view. One wore a dark blue dress, while the other had long, red hair. The last surviving members of Houses Whitehill and Karstark cautiously stepped towards the high table, glancing at everyone in the room. They obviously feared for their lives, and all were silent as they awaited Edric's proclamation.

"Yes, Lord Edric?" Gwyn asked, holding her head high. Whatever her fate, she faced it with dignity, which Edric respected. For her part, Alys kept a stoic silence.

"Gwyn, your father was a fat, greedy, treacherous dog," Edric began. "He took every opportunity to advance his position, and from what I hear, your brother Gryff made House Forrester suffer dearly. Alys, your father joined Ludd in betraying me and trying to have me killed." Edric paused, taking a deep breath. "While I can't deny I'm still angry, I recognize that neither of you had a hand in their treachery. Ludd and Harald both died in the battle, so to my mind, punishment has been meted out. Therefore, I formally pardon you of any guilt and confirm your positions as heads of your respective Houses. The time for division between us is over. We must all unite and face the coming storm with all the courage, honour, and bravery of the North. What say you?"

Every lord shouted in unison, raising their fists high.

* * *

Sansa stood in the courtyard, watching Jon saddle his horse. He and Ser Davos would ride to White Harbor, then sail to Dragonstone. There they would entreaty Daenerys Targaryen for the island's Dragonglass, and hopefully not die in the process. He came back into her life only recently, yet he had to leave so soon. It was not fair.

"It seems like only yesterday we said goodbye to each other," she told him, a sad smile on her face.

Jon nodded. "Let's hope it won't take as long before we see each other."

Sansa wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, squeezing as hard as she could for fear he would disappear from her life forever. Robb was gone, and Bran and Arya and Rickon. "I can't bear to lose you, Jon. You're all I have left."

"You won't. Besides, you have someone else to look after you."

Hearing footsteps, Sansa broke the hug to see Edric approaching. "I'll do the best I can," her husband said. He wore a suit of leather armour with a black wolf's cloak draped over his shoulders. The collar was embossed with a Direwolf sigil. Sansa had made that for Edric while he was away, fighting. She had intended it to be a gift for his return, but it became the first proper outfit he wore after coming back to life.

She feared he, too, would disappear from her life at the drop of a hat.

Edric held out his hand, which Jon took. "Don't worry; I'll look after the North."

"Try not to destroy it while I'm gone," Jon said with a smirk.

Her brother then mounted his horse. Ser Davos came into view, Shireen Baratheon by his side. When they saw Edric, they paused. The former smuggler kept a hand on the girl's shoulder, ever protective of his charge. Edric walked over to them, and Sansa noticed his fingers twitching nervously.

"Ser Davos," he said, nodding to the older man. "Lady Shireen," he said, looking the half-scarred girl in the eyes. "I wanted to apologize for my earlier behaviour. It was shameful, and I should have treated you with respect. I give you my word that you will always have a place here, if you wish."

Shireen looked up at Davos, who gave her a nod of encouragement. She looked back at Edric with all the dignity she could muster. "I thank you, Lord Edric, for your hospitality. And I accept your apology. The time for old hatreds is gone." Davos kissed Shireen on the head, then mounted his horse. Together, he and Jon rode through Winterfell's front gates. Sansa hurried to the top of the wall to see them shrink into the distance.

Later, after a busy day of administering Winterfell and delegating amongst the Northern lords and their armies, Edric and Sansa retired to their chambers.

Sansa, having shed her fur cloak and outer garments, stood in front of the fire. Edric, only wearing a pair of trousers, wrapped his arms around her growing belly, nuzzling his chin against her neck. She closed her eyes, relishing his touch. Edric's beard scratched her, but she did not mind. All that mattered was them, together again.

"I read your letter," she told him. "The one you gave to Maester Pyne."

"I want our child to be strong," Edric said. "I could think of no stronger names. Eddard and Catelyn Stark were fierce parents; they loved you and your siblings with all their hearts. I only hope I can raise our child as well as he raised you."

Sansa smiled. "If he were still here, I'd…" She stopped, gasping.

"Is something wrong?" Edric asked, suddenly tense.

"No." Sansa took his hand and pressed it against her belly. They waited for a few moments, then it was there. A kick.

Edric gasped, unable to speak. They felt two more kicks, as if the child were eager to enter the world. He and Sansa faced each other and kissed, their love stronger than ever.

Someone knocked at the door.

"My lord, my lady," one of the guards called.

"What is it?" Sansa asked.

"The front gates, my lady. There is something you should see."

She and Edric shared a confused glance, but nevertheless got dressed and made their way through the castle into the courtyard. A number of guards were gathered by the front gates, torches in hand. A young woman, beautiful with black curls, stood beside a cart while dressed in thick furs commonly needed in the far North.

Sansa walked to the rear of the cart, and felt her heart nearly stop.

"Bran!"

* * *

 _ **Harrenhal…**_

"He's beautiful," Drakon said. His grandson slept soundly in his arms, sucking his thumb as he dreamt.

"Yes, he is," Jayne said, beaming. "We named him Aegor, after Bittersteel."

Drakon smiled. "A strong name, for a strong boy. You were never fussy as a babe. After the day you were born, you never cried, never. I would sit by your crib and watch you for hours, and all the while you would stare right back at me. You always had such strength, Jayne. I saw it, even then. I knew you were going to accomplish great things. Your brothers, on the other hand, they never stopped crying; it drove your mother and I to tears most nights. They would…"

All of a sudden, the harshness of reality came crashing down. In his joy at holding his grandson, Drakon fooled himself into forgetting about Jayne's dark news.

She covered her mouth with a hand, looking out the window as tears rolled down her cheeks. They sat in a small chamber, with a long table in the centre and an empty hearth. Most of the far wall was gone, allowing for an unobstructed view of Harrenhal. They were alone, Drakon having demanded privacy from the guards and Jayne's husband.

"I never got to say goodbye," Drakon whispered. "I never had the chance to tell him how much I loved him, I…" He trailed off as a terrible thought crossed his mind: every time he looked at Edwyn, Drakon would be reminded of his dead son.

"I didn't believe it when I heard the news," Jayne said, wiping her cheeks. "I thought it was hearsay, that he was wounded in battle and separated from his men. But Maester Pyne sent out ravens from Winterfell, confirming it."

Handing Aegor back to Jayne, Drakon stood and walked over to the window. Tywin Lannister once garrisoned in this castle, during the War of Five Kings. He would have stood at the exact spot Drakon was standing, plotting the destruction of enemy Houses and prosecuting a war. No matter what he did, no matter how much he bettered himself, it seemed Drakon would never escape the shadow of his mother's murderer.

"We'll have to mourn him later, Jayne. Right now, we have more pressing matters to attend to."

Jayne joined him by the window, letting Aegor sleepily grasp her finger. "Now that we've absorbed the traitorous Valemen, the Darklyte rebellion is our primary concern."

Drakon nodded. "They are no mere upstarts. They share our bloodline, and therefore have a claim to the throne. From the reports I read, they possess formidable alchemical knowledge, and Saernys Darklyte and her brother have proven themselves cunning tacticians." Grinding his teeth, he added "And it would seem they possess the means to subjugate Dragons, courtesy of Euron Greyjoy."

"Maelion," Jayne said.

"Yes. They've already used him to claim several castles in the Reach. Even a single Dragon is an unparalleled asset in war, and I trained Maelion well."

"And now we have Daenerys Targaryen to concern ourselves with."

"Daenerys isn't the problem."

His daughter gave him a confused look. "What do you mean? She's come to our shores with three Dragons and armies of eastern savages! She wants the Iron Throne, father, she always has. Now she may very well be in a position to claim it. We need to defeat her."

"What we need to do is ally with her," Drakon said.

Jayne's mouth fell open. "What? Father, you can't be serious!"

"I've never been more serious."

"Daenerys Targaryen is the enemy! Our Houses have been enemies for a century."

Drakon turned to look down at his daughter, grasping her shoulders. "And that is precisely why we have to put an end to the feud. Daenerys was driven from her home, unjustly. Her father was king, a king that saved my life and gave me a home. With both our forces combined, we could crush the Darklytes. Otherwise, I doubt our ability to defeat them on our own. At least not without massive casualties."

He could see Jayne parsing his words in her mind. She had always been clever, making her well-suited to politics. Hopefully she could see the logic in his plan.

"It is time for old rivalries to be mended, Jayne. We can't build a better world if we cannot move beyond the crimes of our fathers and their fathers before them. I would have died as a child if that were the case."

"Are you certain that this is the only way?" she finally asked.

He kissed her forehead, holding her tight. "Yes."

Later, Drakon mounted Rhaegon outside Harrenhal's walls. Jayne would remain in the castle with a garrison of 2,000 men, while her husband Andar would lead the remaining 13,000 Valemen south to combat the Darklyte host. Now free from enemy raiding, the Riverlords under Ser Brynden Tully would join them.

With a final look at the castle that stood testament to his ancestor's power, Drakon commanded Rhaegon to take flight. He guided his Draconic child east, towards his destiny.

* * *

 _ **Dragonstone…**_

Daenerys walked along the edge of the Painted Table, dragging her fingers along its perfectly carved surface. "Aegon used this to plan his conquest," she said to no one in particular. Missandei, Grey Worm, Tyrion, and Varys stood off to the side, waiting for her to address them. "He carved this table 300 years ago."

"It is incredible, Your Grace," Varys said in his singsong voice. "This island bears the weight of history. Your family's history."

"Yes, it does," she agreed. And Drakon Blackfyre had given it to her. He knew full well how much Dragonstone meant to her; it was almost as if it was his gift to her. "Where did we put Ser Loras and his men?"

"In guest quarters as you commanded, my queen," Grey Worm replied in Valyrian.

Daenerys, standing at the head of the table, looked at Tyrion. "Do you think this 'Knight of the Flowers' is trying to trick us?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Loras Tyrell is a skilled fighter, and a passionate lover from what I've been told. But the last thing I'd call him is clever. If he gave you a message of peace, then it was Drakon Blackfyre that told him to give it."

"So the offer is genuine?"

Tyrion took a few slow steps forward. "You aren't seriously considering negotiating with him, are you? Drakon Blackfyre is the enemy, your enemy."

"If I am to become Queen of Westeros, I must consider the people of Westeros," Daenerys countered. "A war would lead to the deaths of thousands, probably more. Drakon and I both have Dragons, and the death and destruction we could cause…No. If there is a chance to end this before we become embroiled in another bloody conflict, then I must consider it."

"You'd consider allying with a man who murders children?" Tyrion asked, incredulous.

"Trystane told us your niece is alive and well in Dorne."

"He still murdered Tommen," Tyrion said. "He still murdered my brother and sister."

"Your brother and sister had much blood on their hands. Just as my brother and father did. I know you loved them, but even you have to realize that they were far from innocent."

"You must know what Drakon intends?" Tyrion asked. She noticed how he had avoided responding to her words. "We cannot expect him to abdicate the throne. He will want to marry you. Is that what you want, another forced marriage to some bloodthirsty warlord?"

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. "You will not slander my late husband," she warned. "And yes, I had considered that."

"Drakon already has a wife, and three children. All he wants is your name and your armies. It wouldn't even be a proper marriage."

"That may not be entirely accurate," Missandei spoke up. "After all, Aegon the Conqueror wed both his sisters at the same time. It was a common Valyrian practice."

Tyrion shrugged. "Besides, it doesn't matter. We have his wife and children. When the time comes, we'll use them to enhance your position."

Missandei frowned. "Are you suggesting we threaten the lives of three infants?"

"I was in King's Landing when it fell to Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister, Your Grace," Varys said. "I saw your brother's children, carved up, wrapped in Lannister cloaks as they were presented to Robert like prized game. I serve you because I believe you are the right person to rule. But more than that, I serve the realm, the millions of innocent men, women, and children who are oppressed and butchered every day at the whims of lords and kings for power or sport. Do you wish to become like your father, murdering anyone who might possibly be a threat to you?"

"Of course not," Daenerys said, tasting bile in her throat. The last thing she wanted was to become like her father, warped by madness and drenched in the blood of innocents.

"You are the rightful ruler," Tyrion said. "People will flock to your banner. If we oppose Drakon Blackfyre, they will follow us."

"And what of those who don't?" Varys asked. "Drakon Blackfyre has three children at the heads of the most powerful kingdoms, and many lords owe him their positions and lives. Annihilating the Freys and Boltons made him a hero. He controls the might of the Golden Company, and he has two fully grown, fully trained, Dragons. Need I remind you what happened the last time your Dragons fought, Your Grace?"

Daenerys remembered well. Viserion and Rhaegal were smaller and faster than Drakon's Dragons, but the latter were much larger, on par with Drogon, even. They gave worse than they got in that battle.

"My children still bear the scars from that battle," she said, gazing out at the Blackwater.

"Then I suppose the question is simple, Your Grace," Varys said. "Do you continue the rivalry between Targaryen and Blackfyre that your forefathers began, or do you end a century-long feud for the betterment of the realm?"

Grey Worm took a step forward. "If you choose to fight, my queen, we will kill your enemies. We are prepared to give our own lives for you, if need be."

Daenerys turned to look at her general. "The last thing I want is to lose you, Grey Worm. Thank you, all of you, for your counsel. I could not have come this far without any one of you." She looked down at Tyrion, who frowned. Her Hand probably knew her decision already. "If there is a chance for peace, I will take it. Drakon Blackfyre intends to negotiate, and I intend on hearing him out. Perhaps building a better world starts with mending the rift our ancestors created."

* * *

Drakon stood at the head of a boat, staring into the fog. He could see nothing past a few feet from the boat. A pair of lanterns hung on either side, granting the oarsmen some meagre illumination. Rhaegon was back in the Crownlands; Drakon had left instruction that he be regularly fed so he would not have to range for food. Maelion was in the clutches of the Darklytes because of it, and Drakon would not lose Rhaegon as well.

The ship he took from King's Landing was anchored some distance behind them. They would reach Dragonstone shortly. Drakon thought he heard something from above. Flapping wings, perhaps? The fog prevented him from seeing if Daenerys' Dragons were overhead. But he sensed their presence, one Dragon recognizing another.

Finally, they breached the fog enough to see the shore. A squadron of Unsullied stood there, waiting, along with a pair of Dothraki who guarded Missandei, Daenerys' advisor.

The oarsmen hopped out of the boat, pulling it the rest of the way onto the sand. Drakon hopped over the edge, walking towards his greeting party. The Unsullied formed a semicircle around him, leveling their spears. "We welcome you, Drakon of the House Blackfyre," Missandei said, courteous yet distant. "Our queen awaits you, but first we ask that you surrender your weapons."

One of the Dothraki approached, holding out a hand expectantly. Drakon glanced at the Unsullied, then unstrapped Blackfyre and Dark Sister. He gave them to the Dothrakan, but jerked him closer, so their faces almost touched. The Unsullied stepped forward, ready to strike.

"I expect to have these returned," Drakon whispered to the Dothrakan in the horse-lords' tongue. "If not, then I shall shove your braid down your throat."

The Dothrakan stared at him, unwavering, and Drakon released his grip.

"Please, follow me," Missandei said.

She led him past the front gate and up the long, carved stairs that led to the castle proper. Two of Daenerys' Dragons flew back and forth, almost as if they were keeping watch. Drakon noted how the third, the biggest, was absent. Perhaps he was feeding, or somewhere else on the island. After entering the castle of his ancestors, Drakon followed Missandei to the throne room. Not so long ago, this island belonged to him, and now he came as a guest.

A pair of Unsullied opened the large double doors, and the throne room was open to him.

He stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the grand, cavernous chamber. Ahead, at the throne of Aegon the Conqueror, Daenerys sat with her hands folded on her lap. She wore a black dress with sharpened shoulder pads, the material resembling Dragon scales. A three-headed Dragon brooch pinned a crimson cloak that wrapped around her right shoulder.

At the foot of the throne stood Grey Worm, Commander of the Unsullied, and none other than Tyrion Lannister. They both stared at him with intensity borne of mistrust.

Daenerys, however, did not. She looked at Drakon with more regal dissociation, but he saw a hint of curiosity as well. Missandei joined Grey Worm, then said "You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and—"

"Mother of Dragons," Drakon finished, a smirk tugging at his lips.

After staring at him for a few moments, Daenerys turned to her advisors and said "Give us the room." Missandei and Grey Worm complied, walking out, while Tyrion hesitated. He looked at his queen, who nodded. The dwarf gave Drakon a wide berth as he left, radiating hatred. The doors closed, leaving the scions of Blackfyre and Targaryen alone.

"You look well," Drakon told her, stepping closer. "A true queen."

"Is that why you came here?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Flattery?"

"I came here to open negotiations that might end hostilities between us," he replied. "Are you offended?"

"I have a certain mistrust for men trying to gain my favour with a silver tongue."

"Fair enough." Drakon glanced at the doors. "Tyrion surely counseled you against meeting me. I could tell he barely tolerated being in the same room as me."

"Can you blame him? You murdered his brother and sister, and had his nephew killed."

Drakon sighed. "I never intended for Tommen to die. I was going to send him to the Wall, so he could live in some semblance of peace. His caravan was attacked en route, and he died. I am not like Tywin Lannister; I do note murder children. That is why I ensured Myrcella lived. She's happier with the Martells than she ever was with her family."

"A family you butchered," Daenerys reminded him.

"Yes, I did. Just as Tywin Lannister butchered mine and your brother's family. Just as your father butchered the Starks. Westeros is built on a mountain of corpses drawn from centuries of feuds. Isn't that what we are trying to erase? The old way needs to die. We can create a new way, a better way. One where pointless slaughter is not the preferred path to stability."

Daenerys cocked her head. "What do you propose? A permanent alliance? You already sit on the Iron Throne, my family's throne. How could we build a better world together if you control my kingdoms?"

"That is the crux of the matter, isn't it? What I propose is this: we join our Houses, Blackfyre and Targaryen. Together we could create the most powerful dynasty this world has ever seen, greater than that of our ancestors."

"So, marriage, then." Her tone became scornful, and there was no mistaking the sneer on her face. "You are not the first to suggest that to me. You would not be the first I rejected."

"I understand your reticence, but this would not be like your former enemies in Essos. If we were to wed, we would be equals, sharing power. Our followers would have less reason to take up arms than if one of us killed the other." Drakon clasped his hands behind his back. "Our Houses would become one. Everything I have would be yours as well. My children would become your children."

For a brief moment, Daenerys' expression cracked. Drakon saw the mixture of disbelief and longing in her eyes. Losing her son had left a lifelong scar on her soul, just as losing his wife and unborn twins had left a scar on his own soul.

Daenerys re-applied her stoic gaze, standing up.

"I know you have my wife and children, Daenerys," Drakon said. "Unlike those that have come to fear you, I know you never harm innocents. I would ask that you return them to me. I haven't seen Visenya or our children in nearly two years."

She slowly stepped down to the floor, circling him like a Dragon appraising a possible meal. "Of course. They are on their way here, now. They'll be allowed to leave immediately. I'll even return Ser Loras to you, as a gesture of good faith."

Drakon sighed in relief. "Thank you. I will not forget this."

"I'll arrange accommodations for you," Daenerys said. "While the negotiations proceed, you will remain here as my guest."

Drakon had expected as much. He only hoped the proceedings did not take too long; with Maelion under their control, the Darklytes were now a serious threat to the stability of the realm. With Daenerys and her forces by his side, he could end their threat and build the prosperous realm Rhaegar would have built, had he lived.

"I certainly hope we can—"

The doors creaked open, and Drakon and Daenerys turned to see Varys entering. His steps were quick, his brow furrowed. The Spider brought bad news with him.

Varys leaned in close to Daenerys and whispered in her ear. By the way her eyes widened in shock, Drakon knew it had to be troubling. "He should know," she said.

The Spider looked at him, a sad smile on his round, hairless face. "It's been some years, Your Grace, since last we met. With much regret, I must inform you that Yara Greyjoy's fleet has been ambushed at sea. Queen Daenerys had sent her to bring your wife and children to Dragonstone. Several ships were sunk, but as far as we can tell, most of the fleet is intact. Unfortunately, Yara Greyjoy's flagship was among those attacked. She and your family have been taken."

Drakon felt the blood rush from his face. "Who? Who did this?"

"Euron Greyjoy," Varys replied. "He is in league with House Darklyte, and likely bringing your family to them for use as hostages."

Euron Crow's Eye now had Visenya, Daemon, Rhaenyra, and their third child in his clutches. The Darklytes took what mattered most to him. Drakon would annihilate every last one of them.

* * *

 _ **Bitterbridge…**_

Edwyn leaned over the table in his tent, staring at the map of Westeros. Small, carved markers indicated the known positions of his and the Darklyte forces in the west. Green Dragon markers sat south of the Mander River and west of Horn Hill, centred around Oldtown. The rest were at Bitterbridge, Goldengrove, and along the Roseroad.

Blue Dragon markers sat at Old Oak, Cider Hall, Ashford, and now Highgarden. The enemy had cut his realm in half with the capture of his capital. Now, Edwyn's armies were separated from each other.

Edwyn poured himself a cup of wine. He glared at the blue Dragon markers, imagining they all bore Saernys Darklyte's face. That woman had humiliated him on too many occasions.

Sitting down, Edwyn muttered "I wish you were here, father. You'd know what to do."

In the depths of his mind, safely hidden from the eyes and ears of his advisors and soldiers, he wished he never became the Lord Paramount of the Reach. After all, what was he? Little more than a boy trying to claim glory on the battlefield. His father had been a true warrior, one who fought for a purpose and outthought his enemies. Jayne was smart, irritatingly so, learning the ways of politics and scheming from a young age. Even Edric, his own twin, had shown more promise with a sword.

Edwyn was mediocre compared to them.

Daemon Blackfyre had been one of the greatest warriors in Westeros' history. His half-brother and children founded the most elite Sellsword unit in Essos. His grandfather, Maelys, was stronger than any man, able to kill a horse with a single punch. Compared to them, Edwyn felt lacking. Because of his weakness, the Darklytes would claim the Reach, and it would be up to Jayne and others to finish what he couldn't.

Edwyn gulped his wine, re-filling his cup. He felt Edric's absence like a void in his gut, swallowing every emotion and memory. They were twins, together since before they were born. Reading the letter alerting him to Edric's death had cut deep, down to the bone. They were two halves of one whole, stronger together than alone. Now, Edwyn had to keep going, all by himself.

His tent flap opened, and one of his guards entered.

"What?" Edwyn demanded, glaring at the guard. Could a man not wallow in self-loathing without interruption?

"My lord, you need to see."

"See what?" With his luck, Saernys Darklyte would be approaching on Maelion's back, ready to kill them all.

"An army approaches, from the east," the guard said.

Edwyn furrowed his brow. East? If it were the Darklytes, they would approach from the south or west. "Did anyone see a banner? Who do they fight for?"

"Our lookouts report they ride with banners of solid gold."

"But that would mean…It can't be the Golden Company?" Edwyn dropped his cup and ran out of his tent, shoving the guard aside. He emerged into the afternoon daylight. The camp was in a state of mild alarm, with soldiers running to and fro in response to the approaching army. "Fetch my horse!"

With half a dozen knights, Edwyn rode out to meet the newcomers. He could see that they, indeed, rode with solid gold banners. They stretched towards the horizon, their golden armour shining like 1,000 suns. A group of four men rode towards him. The leader, a portly man who barely fit in his armour with thinning hair, raised a hand. "Are you Edwyn Blackfyre?"

"I am. Who are you, and why did you bring an army into my lands?"

"My name is Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company. Your father, the king, sent us to aid you in your campaign while he attends to other matters."

Edwyn sneered. "My father is dead. Do not insult his memory by using him as an excuse."

Harry brought his horse beside Edwyn's, while the knights held their hands to their swords. "He asked me to give you this, as well." He held out a scroll, sealed in black wax.

Frowning with suspicion, Edwyn nevertheless took the scroll. It bore the black Dragon seal that his father used, but that proved nothing. Breaking the seal, he unfurled the scroll. His breath hitched as he read the single sentence, written in his father's unmistakable handwriting.

 _I will never abandon you, my son._

* * *

 **Sorry for the delay, folks. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **Lord Pyrus: Thanks! And yeah, Gae's going to be surprised by his sister's acquisition, to say the least. Nice to know the twist with Edric actually surprised some people!**

 **nanold: Thanks! And I do admit that there are a lot of storylines to follow. I apologize for any confusion, and I try my best to keep things as straightforward as I can. It's tricky with material like this, since GoT is built on Machiavellian schemes and complex twists.**

 **TheOnlyKing: I'm glad Edric is back, too. I love him too much to keep him dead. And yeah, Daenerys (even the stupid version the show ultimately gave us) would never do anything like that. No one is as dumb as Cersei.**

 **South Down: Hurray! Visenya and Euron was one of those things that just popped into my head and wouldn't leave as an interesting plot point. Also, I'm assuming you're talking about Gae? In that case, me too. Killing him off now would be, in my view, a wasted opportunity. I really want to pit the Darklytes and Blackfyres against each other and see how their personalities clash.**

 **Guest: As you see in this chapter, that is Drakon's intention. Whether Dany accepts, or tries to propose alternate terms for an alliance, we'll have to wait and see.**

 **Guest: That's an interesting idea. I think the grand conflict of the show (White Walkers/Great Other versus everyone else/Lord of Light boils down to life and death, creation versus destruction. It draws from a primal conflict of light and dark, and there will be champions for both sides.**

 **TheIronEmperor: Hehe. And yeah, I had to tweak the whole resurrection thing so it'd be at least plausible (as much as anything can be plausible in a world with Dragons, ice zombies, and little green forest dwellers). Realistically, decomp would have ruined the body so, even if Thoros did get to him within a day, Edric would come back looking more like a traditional zombie. I had to declare 'creative license' to preserve the story flow. That's why I had The Hound and the Brotherhood so close to Winterfell when they showed up two chapters ago.**


End file.
